Part 37 (1/2)
”What about the law?”
”What about it?”
I thought about it for half a second. ”When the governor and the state legislators stop taking your money,” I said, ”you pay off the cops.”
”Mulligan,” he said, ”you never heard that from me.”
51.
Maybe it was because I'd gone so long without s.e.x, but today Vanessa Maniella looked especially enticing in a tight cashmere sweater that showed off the swell of her b.r.e.a.s.t.s and a short gray skirt that displayed a fine pair of legs.
”Thanks for agreeing to meet me,” she said.
”You're welcome.”
”I thought it was time we got to know each other better.”
”Of course you did. My boyish charm is hard to resist.”
”I didn't mean it that way.”
”No?”
”I'm not into men.”
”Oh.”
”Sorry to disappoint.”
”Don't tell my achy breaky heart.”
”Billy Ray Cyrus?”
”Yeah, but he wrote it about me.”
We were seated at a table for two in the Cheesecake Factory at the Providence Place Mall. Outside the plate gla.s.s window, I could see Black s.h.i.+rt, or maybe it was Gray s.h.i.+rt, keeping an eye on us from a Hummer that was parked illegally on the street.
Before I could ask Vanessa what she really wanted, the waiter arrived to take our drink orders, a pineapple mojito for her and a club soda for me.
”On the wagon? I thought you'd be celebrating.”
”And why would I be doing that?”
”Your story about our campaign contributions is getting a lot of attention,” she said.
”It is, but my sidekick, Mason, did most of the work.”
”Bet the two of you are heroes at the Dispatch these days.”
”Oh, yeah. They're erecting a statue of us in the lobby.”
”Probably win one of those big journalism prizes, too,” she said.
”No way. They always go to long, boring five-part series that no one ever reads-except, of course, for the poor b.a.s.t.a.r.ds who have to edit them. Dave Barry, the humor columnist, says newspapers should stop publis.h.i.+ng them-that they should just write them up and submit them for prizes. He figures that would save enough trees for a new national park.”
”Maybe they could call it the Pulitzer Forest,” Vanessa said.
”That's just what Dave Barry said.”
”Well, your story certainly impressed me,” she said. ”I thought we'd done a pretty good job of covering our tracks.”
”You had.”
”That's why my father and I want you to come to work for us. We need someone with your abilities.”
”And how would I be using them, exactly?”
”To find other people who are good at covering their tracks.”
”What people?”
”We can't get into that until you agree to take the job.”
”Pig in a poke,” I said.
”You'd be digging up dirt on some bad people, Mulligan. And we can pay you a hundred K to start.”
”Would I have to wear a tie?”
”Wear whatever you want.”
No way I would ever work for the Maniellas, but I allowed myself a moment to dream on what a hundred grand a year would buy. More vintage blues records. A better sound system to play them on. An apartment with no cracks in the plaster. A Ford Mustang to replace Secretariat. Name it Citation, maybe. Or better yet, Seabiscuit.
”So what do you say?” she said.
”I'm thinking about it.” I wondered if the new Mustang came in yellow.
”I think you'd like the fringe benefits,” she said.
”Dental?”
”No, but the women at my clubs would be available to you whenever you wanted them.”
”Ah.”
”One of the girls at Shakehouse looks a lot like Yolanda,” she said. And then she winked.