by Tom Turner
A half hour later, she walked into the coffee shop at Mercy Church. Wendy waved to her from a corner table. Wearing black pants and a white, collared shirt, she looked more beautiful than the first time they met.
“Thanks for seeing me,” Jackie said, when she got to the table. “Can I get you something?’
“Still caffeine-free,” Wendy said.
“Oh, yes, that’s right,” Jackie said. “Makes me feel like I have a vice.”
Wendy put up her hands. “Sorry, didn’t mean to. Coffee’s not going to kill you.”
“Give me just a minute,” Jackie said, heading over to get a coffee.
A few minutes later she was back at the table, sitting opposite Wendy.
“What’s your last name, anyway?” Jackie asked.
“Preston,” she said. “And yours is Farrell, right?”
Jackie nodded. “Okay, now that we’ve been properly introduced, let me hit you with a few questions.”
“Fire away.”
“I’m trying to get the big picture at Casa Romantica,” Jackie said. “So, obviously, Miranda Cato and John Redmond were partners?”
“Ah-huh.”
“And my understanding is that Redmond bought the house, renovated it, and Miranda ran it?”
“That’s right.”
“Okay, so do you have any idea how they first met?”
Wendy tapped her fingers on the table. “The way I heard it, the connection was a cop they both knew. I think Miranda knew the cop from her church. Apparently, Miranda told him she had a bunch of business ideas and was looking for a backer. So, the cop said he had a friend with money and, long story short, Miranda got together with Redmond and, I assume, impressed him. And boom—not long after that they started Casa Romantica.”
Jackie was ninety-eight per cent sure she knew the answer to her next question: “And do you know the name of the cop?”
“Do I ever,” Wendy said. “Among other things, he became one of the Casa’s best customers. His name is Suggs Brown.”
Jackie’s heart rate kicked up a notch. A step closer to Harry being in the clear. “What do you mean, among other things?”
“Well, I don’t know how he had time to be a cop, he was so busy at the Casa,” Wendy said. “From what I could tell, he wore a bunch of hats. First of all, if there was ever any problem with a customer, which was rare but did happen, Suggs got the call. I remember this one guy who got drunk and out of control—”
“Glen Cromartie, by any chance?”
Wendy nodded. “That’s exactly who it was. He was a regular, but after what happened, Suggs told him he was not welcome back.”
“What else did Suggs do?”
“Well, there was this other guy, a retired cop,” Wendy said. “Somehow he found out about the Casa and told Miranda he’d get it shut down unless she paid him off. For some reason she didn’t mention it to Redmond or Brown, just paid him. But then the guy got greedy and wanted more and more. Finally, she told Redmond who, I guess, must have told Brown to take care of him.”
Jackie nodded. “I know about him. His name was Roscoe Byrd.”
“Yes, that sounds right,” Wendy said. “So, I guess you could say Suggs Brown went around and put out fires.”
“Kind of a combination enforcer and fixer,” Jackie said. “But you said he also was one of the best customers.”
Wendy cocked her head. “Well, actually one of the worst customers. One of the ways he got paid was sessions with the girls. The deal was, all he had to do was pay the tip. The girls complained how cheap he was. One of them told me he gave her a three-dollar tip.”
Jackie shook her head. “That’s really cheap.”
“Well, yeah, particularly, since the girls were used to getting a hundred or so.”
Jackie took a sip of her coffee. “Do you know anything about the new place, Casa Erotica?”
“I know about it, but not much. Since I’m not on the inside anymore. I don’t even know any of the girls who work there now”—a smile lit up her face—“being in an entirely different line of work and all.”
“I hear you,” Jackie said. “But, if you don’t mind, tell me what you’ve heard.”
“Well, for one thing, I hear it’s way bigger than Casa Romantica and has even more amenities. And, trust me, we had a lot. I hear they’re charging even more than we did. Oh, and Redmond’s girlfriend is supposedly running it…. anything else?”
“Do you know if Suggs Brown is still involved?”
“That I don’t know, but I’d assume so. I mean, they still need someone to fix things and bust heads occasionally, you know?”
Jackie nodded. “So, if he is still involved, I’d think one of his primary jobs must have been to cover up Miranda’s murder.”
Wendy nodded. “Absolutely. And my guess is Redmond delegated the job of killing Miranda to Brown. Why get his hands dirty?”
“Exactly what I was thinking. But there’s another guy who could have done it,” Jackie said, thinking of the man who had knocked her out. Teflon Ron.
Jackie put her hand on Wendy’s. “Thank you so much for the help, I really appreciate it.”
“You’re very welcome,” Wendy said. “Before you go, I have to tell you my little… pet peeve, I guess you’d call it.”
“What’s that?”
“Well, it’s probably not exactly what you’d expect to hear from a… church girl”—Wendy smiled—“but, anyway, back when I worked there, I always loved the name Casa Romantica. It was such a nice, soft name, even though, let’s face it, it had very little to do with romance. But Casa Erotica...? It’s just so nasty and hard-core”—she shrugged—“kinda know what I mean?”
Jackie nodded. “I know exactly what you mean.” She had the same reaction.
34
Ryder was not good at taking orders.
She had rationalized that what her sister, who officially was her boss, had said was not an order. It was, in fact, a question: “Can we be done with this conversation?” was the last thing Jackie had said on the subject. And that had been it, the end of the conversation. Since then, Ryder had given the whole matter serious consideration, weighing the pros and cons, and decided—the hell with it, she was going to go have a look at Casa Erotica from the inside.
She was in her Hyundai on her way to 128 Morning Glory Street, having called back Victoria, the madam, who agreed to meet and interview her at four o’clock that afternoon.
Halfway there, Ryder got a call from Jackie, who told her about what she had found out about the relationship between John Redmond and Suggs Brown. How she had confirmed with Wendy that Brown had been Miranda Cato’s designated enforcer for keeping the heat off of Casa Romantica, and—she was now ninety-eight per cent certain—the man whose job it was to make sure Miranda’s murder never got solved.
All the more reason to go scope out Casa Erotica, Ryder thought.
At the end of their conversation Jackie asked Ryder where she was. Ryder answered, “In my car,” then quickly added, “gotta go.”
Ten minutes later, she pulled up to the huge brick Georgian house. She was happy to see that Billy Deets’s pickup was not there.
She got out of the Hyundai, walked up three steps, and pressed the doorbell.
The large mahogany door opened and a tall, blonde woman, who reminded Ryder of pictures she had seen of the model, Lauren Hutton—complete with a gap between her front teeth—appeared. She had a perfect milky complexion and—what was no doubt more important in her line of work—a ten-out-of-ten figure.
“Charlotte?” Victoria asked.
Ryder had decided to go with her given name.
“Yes, hi, are you Victoria?”
“I am,” she said. “Come on in.”
Ryder walked in and felt like she was in one of the old mansions in Newport, Rhode Island, that she had visited when she was a kid. “Beautiful,” was all she said as she looked around. And indeed, it was.
“I know,” Victoria said, walking
Jackie into the living room. “The house was decorated by the famous designer, Leslie Madden.”
Ryder wasn’t sure what she’d expected, but the living room was way beyond what she ever imagined.
It was perfectly proportioned with fourteen-foot ceilings and three ten-foot, mahogany, four-paneled doors that led out to a large fieldstone porch in back. Opulent Heriz and Serapi rugs covered the wide 150-year-old heart pine floors.
Two Waterford crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling and on the walls hung artwork that seemed to be a mixture of old historical portraits and bucolic English landscapes. Below the paintings were perfectly polished English sideboards and secretaries, one inlaid with satinwood that had gleaming, polished brass knobs.
Scattered around the room were a variety of slouchy comfortable pieces mixed with items like an old Lawson sofa covered in a tattered gold silk damask and four slip-covered chairs on the main wall opposite the fireplace.
Victoria was observing Ryder’s wide eyes and half-open mouth. “As I’m sure you can imagine,” she said, “it’s a pretty nice place to work.” She beckoned Ryder with her hand. “Come on, let’s sit down and talk.”
They sat down on a long sofa, which had a tufted ottoman in rust linen velvet in front of it. Resting on it was a large toile trey with stacks of coffee-table books that looked like they’d never been opened.
It certainly didn’t match Ryder’s impression of what a whorehouse looked like.
“So where are you from?” Victoria asked.
Ryder noticed she had a gold stud in her tongue. It clashed mightily with the old-world aura of the house.
“Well, originally New York,” Ryder said. “Moved down here a year ago. Couldn’t afford New York anymore.”
Victoria laughed. “I get that. You ever do any modeling? ‘Cause you could have.”
Ryder smiled. “Well, thanks. No, I was in the advertising business up there. Producing commercials.”
“That must have been fun.”
“More fun than money,” Ryder said tapping her finger on a walnut end table.
Victoria nodded. “Well, let me just say, I think you’d fit in well here,” she said. “I assume you know what goes on?”
Ryder nodded. “Ah, yeah. I’m pretty good at reading between the lines.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, I mean, your website,” Ryder said. “It doesn’t take a rocket scientist.”
Victoria laughed. “You’d be surprised. I had one girl come here who was under the impression that she just played tennis, went fishing, and sat around and drank beer with the boys.”
“I have a feeling that job wouldn’t pay much,” Ryder said.
Victoria nodded. “Which is the best part of this job. It does.”
“I was just going to ask. Tell me about that.”
“Okay, you get a third of what we charge the man, which is anywhere between five hundred for an hour to twenty-five-hundred dollars for an overnight,” Victoria said. “Plus, of course, whatever they tip you. But sometimes we have men who come for like a whole week. That runs between twenty and twenty-five thousand dollars. So, a third of that would be…well, you can do the math. We once had a Kuwaiti prince who ended up spending seventy-five thousand dollars. But he had, let’s just say, ‘special needs.’”
Ryder smiled. “I’m very interested.”
“I figured you might be.”
“Can I ask you a few more questions?”
“Ask away.”
“Do I get paid after every… job, or exactly how does it work?”
Victoria put a foot up on the ottoman and sank down in her chair. “You get paid once a week. In cash. Obviously, the IRS never knows about it, which is another big advantage.”
Ryder nodded. “And if there’s ever a problem with a customer, is there anyone who can, you know, help out?”
“What kind of a problem do you mean?”
“Well, you know, if a guy has too much to drink and gets too aggressive or something.”
Victoria glanced across the room. “We monitor every room. If there’s ever any trouble,” she said with a smile, “we have two big, strong men who’ll make the trouble go away.”
“That’s good to hear,” Ryder said, thinking she had an inkling who those big, strong men might be. “‘Cause I heard something happened last year.”
Victoria’s head swung around. “What do you mean? What did you hear?”
“Someone was killed,” Ryder said, lowering her voice.
“That was not here,” Victoria said shaking her head. “Must have been somewhere else.”
Ryder nodded. “Is it possible to get a quick tour? Maybe see one of the rooms”—Victoria looked surprised at the request—“I mean, it will be my workplace.”
Victoria laughed. “Sure. Why not?”
“Two of the bedrooms are… in service. Two of our regulars from Japan,” Victoria confided, as she stood. “They used to go to Las Vegas, but they told me they like it better here.”
Ryder stood up, looked around and shrugged. “What’s not to like?”
They walked up a wide staircase to the second floor. Another stairway rose up in front of them. Ryder counted seven tall mahogany doors on the second floor, plus, at the far end, what appeared to be an elevator.
“Is that an elevator?” she asked.
“Yes, it goes down to the garage,” Victoria said. “The garage can accommodate twenty cars. Down below it is a replica of the grotto at the Playboy mansion in California.”
“Oh, my God,” Ryder said. “How cool is that.”
Victoria walked up to one of the mahogany doors. “Each suite has its own name,” she said, opening the bedroom door.
A huge bed with a bright red leather headboard dominated the room.
Beyond it, Ryder saw a bathroom, which had white Carrera marble on all four walls. Billy Deets’s handiwork, she guessed.
“So”—Victoria gave Ryder an inscrutable look—“while we’re here, it’s the perfect time for what we call your ‘test drive.’”
Ryder heard footsteps behind her. “My what?”
A man walked into the room. “Your test drive,” Victoria said again. “We don’t hire any girl unless John here has, well, you get the idea.”
“You must be kidding,” Ryder said, in a panic.
John stepped up to within a few feet of Ryder. She wondered if he was the John. He was six feet tall, had a thick but neatly trimmed beard, and smelled as though he’d doused himself with a vat of cologne. He was now uncomfortably close to her and was smiling in a disturbingly familiar way.
“You wouldn’t buy a car unless you drove it, now would you, darlin’?” he asked in a slow Southern drawl.
Ryder thought about running. She put up her hands, turned and locked onto Victoria’s eyes. “Wait a minute, this was not part of the deal.”
“It’s part of our application process,” Victoria said. “If you want the job, there are no exceptions.”
“I think you gonna enjoy it, sugar,” said John.
She thought about bolting again. Her heart was beating so hard she was sure they must be able to hear it.
“I’ve reconsidered,” she said. “I don’t think I’ll take the job after all.”
“You’re making a big mistake,” John said, with a frown.
“How about if I think about it. I can always come back. Today is just not the day.”
“No, you can’t always come back,” John said. “Tomorrow the job may not be available.”
Ryder headed for the bedroom door, fearing this could go in any number of bad directions. She shrugged. “Well, then, I guess I’ll just have to take my chances.”
John and Victoria followed close behind her until Ryder stopped, turned, and glowered, first at John, then Victoria. “Look, I can’t stick around. I told my boyfriend I’d only be here a half hour or so,” she said. “He’s a cop, not to mention the jealous type.”
Victoria looked at John, then
she turned to Ryder.
“Sorry, I don’t think you’re quite right for the job.”
35
Driftaway, the restaurant that Jackie and Harry Bull had settled on, was a seafood place in Sandfly, just outside of Savannah. One thing Jackie loved about where she lived was the variety of names of the places around her. Like Skidaway Island, which was actually where Mercer was located. And Sandfly, which was just over the bridge and at the end of a long, straight stretch on Ferguson Avenue. There was another place called Thunderbolt… though she had no clue where it was.
Jackie and Bull met at Driftaway just after eight-thirty. Bull greeted her with a protracted kiss in the parking lot.
“I know, I know, get a room,” he said.
He was wearing khaki pants and a blue short-sleeved shirt, everything extra crisp.
“You look nice,” she said, looking him over.
Bull laughed. “Don’t always seem so surprised,” he said. “I mean, first, my house, which I guess you figured was going to be a tar paper shack. Now my clothes, which, I guess, you figured were going to be covered with spots and stains. Hell, girl, I even took a shower.”
Jackie laughed. “I just said you look nice.”
He smiled. “Well, you look better.”
They sat at a table next to an aquarium filled with a rainbow spectrum of tropical fish. Driftaway was a homey, simple place and had a menu with so many good things on it that it was hard to decide what to have.
“Can we make a pact?” Jackie asked.
“Sure,” Bull said, looking up from the menu.
“No shop talk, or, at least, a bare minimum.”
“I’m good with that,” Bull said. “Just one question, though: You haven’t seen Ronnie Wallace again, have you?”
Jackie shook her head. “No, and I’ve definitely been keeping an eye out for him,” she said. “And my sister and me”—she patted the Glock under her jacket—“we’re both packing. Handcuffs too.”
Bull nodded. “Good.” Then he sighed. “I still can’t believe how good a shot she was.”
“No surprise to me. She’s a jock,” Jackie said. “She lettered in three sports in college. Can’t get any more competitive than her.”