Part 4 (1/2)
A woman I recognized from the stage upstairs slipped out of the dressing room and walked past the pay phone. They called her Domino, and she had done this dominatrix shtick to Devo's ”Whip It.” She'd worn a s.h.i.+ny black latex getup, thigh-high boots, and a leather mask and strutted about with a riding crop. Now she was dressed in a halter, jeans, and sandals.
”You're Domino, right?” I said like some goofy stage-door Johnny. ”You were great.”
She yawned. ”Thanks, buddy, but I'm tired, and it's against house rules to mix with the gentlemen.”
House rules! Who was she kidding? This wasn't exactly the Lonesome Piper Country Club. For a fistful of fifties and a nice smile, you could get anything you wanted in a place like this.
While I figured out what to say next, I took a careful look at Domino. She had been pretty once, maybe very pretty. At close quarters, however, the wear and tear showed. She was on the wrong side of thirty-five, and the fluorescent light wasn't doing her any favors. I was on that same side of thirty-five myself, but I wasn't trading on my boyish good looks for room and board and who knows what else. The whites of her eyes weren't. Yellow was more like it. She had a touch of drippy junkie nose, or maybe she'd done a few lines too many. She'd get older faster than I, much faster if she didn't get clean. Women like Domino can have short, violent careers, and when things start to go, they go quickly. There's no safety net to catch you and no ladder back up.
”Look, I need to talk to John Heaton,” I admitted, unwilling to spin too much of a tale. ”I know he works here and it's pretty obvious he's a hard man to see.” I gave her my card. ”Just tell him it's about his daughter, all right?”
She didn't answer, but took the card. Her eyes got big as she looked past me. Before I could turn around, a powerful hand clamped down on my left shoulder.
”This a.s.shole bothering you, darlin'?” a gravelly voice wanted to know.
”It's okay, Rocky. He's just a fan,” she said to the man standing behind me, then refocused on my face. ”Thanks for the compliment, mister. Come back again soon.”
I bowed slightly. ”You're welcome.”
She walked past me, her sandals clickity-clacking on the stairs. The vise loosened its grip on my shoulder, and I turned around to have a look at Rocky. So this was the extra muscle. He was definitely an ex-pug. Gee, a boxer named Rocky, what a concept. Though a light heavyweight now, he'd probably fought as a middleweight. By the look of his face, he'd no doubt been a world-cla.s.s bleeder. His brow and the bridge of his flattened nose were thick with scar tissue. That and the fleshy reminders of a thousand unblocked left jabs made him look like he was wearing a pair of skin-tone goggles.
”You're a real f.u.c.kin' pest, chief,” he growled. ”Everybody from the doorman to the girls behind the bar say you been givin' 'em a hard time.”
I considered arguing the point, but I wasn't willing to risk even a playful tap from this guy. He may well have been a bleeder, but the thing about bleeders is they're usually big punchers. It's how they survive. I'm sure more than a few of his opponents left the ring in a lot worse shape than he. It's better to stand and bleed than lie gla.s.sy-eyed on the mat. I showed him my badge.
”What precinct you from?” he asked.
”Not this one. Listen, I'll get outta your hair in a minute. I just want a word with John Heaton and I'm gone.”
Rocky gave it some thought. ”He ain't in today.”
”Don't bulls.h.i.+t me, Rocky, okay?”
”I swear, he ain't in today.”
I pulled a pen out of my pocket and wrote ”Moe” plus a seven-digit number on the wall.
”Tell him to call me when he does get in. I want to talk to him about Moira.”
”All right,” Rocky said, ”I'll pa.s.s word along.”
I shook his hand and left. After an hour in Glitters, the air on Eighth Avenue seemed almost fresh. Darkness should have been in full bloom, but all the gaudy neon and street lighting fooled the eye. I headed back to the outdoor lot on Tenth and Forty-fourth where I'd stashed my car. The crowds had thinned by the time I got to Ninth, and here the artificial lighting at least gave the fallen night a fighting chance. As I stepped down off the curb onto the crumbled blacktop of Ninth Avenue, I noticed the footfalls of a man walking right up behind me.
”He won't talk to you, you know.”
I turned. ”Are you talking to me?”
”I am indeed, Mr. Prager.”
His short, slight stature was unimposing if not exactly unthreatening. He was impeccably dressed in a gold-b.u.t.toned blue blazer, khaki pants, a white oxford s.h.i.+rt, a superbly knotted red silk tie, and loafers. He was an older man, in his mid-sixties, but his gray-blue eyes beneath stylish tortoisesh.e.l.l gla.s.ses were still very young and fiery. His head was tan and bald, and his chin was adorned with a rich gray goatee.
”Who won't speak to me? You seem perfectly willing to chat.”
”I do, don't I? But it's John Heaton to whom I refer. He won't speak to you.”
”I won't even get into how you seem to know so much about my business. There seems to be a lot of that going around lately. So, how do you know John Heaton won't talk to me?”
”That's easy, Mr. Prager.” My new acquaintance showed me an expensive white smile. ”I'm paying him not to.”
”That's a switch. Most of the people who don't speak to me do it for free. Maybe I should give them your number. No sense letting their animosity go to waste if they can make a few bucks on the deal.”
”Very good. Very good. Can I buy you a scotch?”
”Not back at that dump,” I said. ”I've had my fill of tawdry for the year.”
”Oh my, no, Mr. Prager. I was thinking more along the lines of the Yale Club.”
THE YALE CLUB was just west of Grand Central Station, a block or two north of Forty-second. It was a charming old building that was only slightly less difficult to get into than Skull and Bones. There wasn't a hint of ivy anywhere. No one sang ”Boola Boola,” and, much to my chagrin, none of the staff wore plaid golf pants.
My host's name was Yancy Whittle Fenn, but I was to call him Wit. Everyone called him Wit, so I was told. Though I hadn't recognized his tanned and bearded face, I immediately recognized his name when he was finally gracious enough to share it with me on the ride over. Y. W. Fenn was one of the most famous journalists around. He wrote for everyone from Esquire to Playboy, from GQ to The New Yorker. His forte was the celebrity expose. Not just any old celebrity would do, however. No, Wit's subjects, or more accurately, targets, tended to be from among the ranks of the rich and the powerful, particularly those who had landed in the chilly womb of the criminal justice system.
”You know, Wit,” I said as the waiter slid my chair under me, ”I don't see John Heaton as the typical subject of one of your pieces.”
”How very perceptive,” he mocked.
”How are you this evening, Mr. Wit, sir?” asked the nimble, gray-haired black man who had attended to my chair.
”Very good, Willie. Good. And yourself?”
”Same as always, sir. Same as always. What can I get for you and your guest this fine evening?”
”The usual for me, Willie. My guest will have ...”
”Dewar's rocks.”
”Very good, gentlemen. One Dewar's rocks and one Wild Turkey heavy on the wild.”
Wit and Willie had a good laugh at that. Man, they really got wacky at the Yale Club. Wit waited for Willie to leave before speaking to me.
”Of course I'm not interested in John Heaton as anything more than a source. Actually, he's a bit of a drunken bore.”
”He's got his reasons.”
”So have we all, Mr. Prager. My grandson was himself kidnapped and murdered several years ago in New Mexico.”
”I'm sorry.”