Payback (18 page)

Hey. Sure. Why not? He could make himself do that. He could make himself look to where she pointed at her eye. “Zis is bird's feet,” she said. “I am getting zis from vork. You can see zis?”

Mitchell leaning over now. “No.”

“Sank goodness,” Eva said. Not looking at him; no, she was back to that mirror now, angling her head, kind of puckering her lips out and flirting with her eyes, just falling in love again. Oh. My. She was starting to rummage through a box full of pasties. Mitchell looked away; his gaze moved over to the four-paneled screen that wore a boa and a robe. It was time to get to work. He figured he could even get away with something too because her mind was on her boobs. Not that his wasn't.

Laying on the story, though, he felt a little better. He had it all down: Supposed to meet Mack. Mack had checked out and left a note, See Eva, she'll tell you where I went.

“No,” she said. “Ja? Zis is true? I don't believe it. Zis is very very stupid.” She was holding up a couple of pasties to her breasts, one black and one red. “I mean vy he doesn't chust tell ze story in ze note?”

“In the
note?
” He couldn't believe it. “Hey, come on, Eva. Think. He had to leave the note with a nightclerk. At a desk.”

“Aaaah …” It was dawning like a sunrise on a sea. It was just that bright. “Zis is clever,” Eva said. “Zis is very very smart.” She was picking up the surgical glue. He watched her as she squeezed the stuff all around her nipples, then waited, kind of poking at the sticky white circle. “Except,” she said, “
zat
—I vouldn't know vere he vould be.”

Mitchell closed his eyes.

“Except,” she said, “of course he's vis Chackie vich you know.”

He nodded. Okay, it was better than a sharp stick in the eye. “Uh-huh. So the question,” Mitchell said, “would be where the hell's Jackie?”

“Ja,” she said. “True. Zat's ze qvestion of ze veek.” She shrugged. “He vould be off doing usual business. Zere are customers who vait. He makes deals, he comes back. Zere is no vay to plan vis him. Ve try to make a plan, he goes off,” Eva said. She was poking at the glue again. Nope. Not yet. “And zen sleeping,” Eva said. “You vould sink zat ve could sleep—ja? Ve get ze telephone. Ring, ring, ring.” She was picking up the pasty now and setting it in place. She looked at him. “Tell me—zis is even here, ja?”

“Not quite.” He could see a little pink patch of nipple. “Little lower,” Mitchell said. “To the left.”

She said, “Sanks.”

There was silence for a time. She pulled the thing off again and lifted up her tit and tried to catch it in the mirror. There. Dead center. “Like a doctor,” Eva said. “I say to him, Chackie, you are chust like a doctor. Zese are sick-people, ja? He says, ja. He says, Ja, I am a doctor of ze soul.—You like zis?”

“Well … he's got a calling,” Mitchell tried. “He's got a little black baggie and everything—right?”

She was frowning at him. “Vat?”

“I was joking,” Mitchell said.

“No vay. Zis is not a sing for choking,” Eva said. “I tell Chackie zis too. I say to him, Chackie—ze body is a temple. And you don't fuck around in a temple—zis is right?”

Mitchell didn't laugh.

Eva flicked her shoulders. “Zis is sickness. Zis is
feh.
”

“But it's a living,” Mitchell said.

“Ja. Pretty good. Ve vent ze Greek Islands vunce.” She got the other one in place. “Ve vent skiing vunce too. But zis is very very cold. I get ze bumps all over me.”

Jesus, Mitchell thought.

He watched her as she stood now and test-drove the tassles.
Brrrr
-mp.
Brrrr
-mp.
Brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr
-mp. He polished off his drink. Eva checked her watch, click-clacked across the room and disappeared behind a screen. “Vere he's now?” she said. “Poof!”

If she had to make a guess?

“Veil …” He watched a boa start to slither down the screen. Veil, if she had to make a quess, St. Moritz. Or maybe he's in—thud of elastic—in Paris. In Paris, he'd be dealing vis ze whore, Eva said.

Come again?

“She is running zis …
maison close
. You vould know zis expression?”

“It's a whore house,” Mitchell said. Thinking of his father and the Days of Liberation.

Eva said the house was near the Bois de Vincennes and zis
whore
vas ze madam. She didn't know the name.

Okay; it was even pretty logical, he thought. You were looking for a hideout, a place to lay low … so to speak … or figure, an anonymous base of operations … why not? … a little whorehouse on the outskirts of Paris.…

He could use another drink. There was a large bottle of Evian water on the table and he mixed himself a good stiff water-on-the-rocks. “Or,” he said.

“Vat?”

“Or. You said,
or
he could be in St. Moritz.”

“Ja.” She came out—a little rhinestone G-string depending on her hips and little rhinestone garters kind of slapping on her thighs. He poured another shot.

“St. Moritz,” she said. “Chackie vould be staying vis ze count.”

He waited.

“Some Italian. Count Basie, Chackie says.”

He waited. There were black mesh stockings going lovingly and slowly up the leg.

She looked at him. “Vell,” she said briskly, “zat's it. Zis is all zat I vould know. Unless”—bending down—“you vant to look at his apartment. You vould like to have ze key?”

She wrote the address. She wrote it bending over with her boob-tassles swinging and her hip cocked sideways:

Fenngasse. 90, Apt. #7.

18

When Burt walked into Cy's office, Cy was in his desk chair—swiveling around, looking down at San Vicente, and talking on the phone. Cy was saying, “Listen, I don't care what I told him. What I told him's what I told him. What we're talking now's business.” Cy looked surprised and then pointed at the sofa.

Burt didn't sit. He paced around the office now, looking at the autographed pictures on the wall. Autographed picture of Don Johnson, 1980 when nobody'd heard of him. Autographed picture of Tab Hunter, 1987 when nobody'd heard of him
again
.

Cy on the phone saying, “Emil. What I
also
told him, he's a genius. I looked him in the eyes, I said, George—you're an actor of the finest firmament.” Cy raised his eyes. “What do you mean, what do I mean? I
mean
,” Cy said, “that the shmendrick believed me. I mean you got a client hasn't worked seven years, got a toup—you better talk to that man about his toup—you got an unemployed faggot with a bad-looking toup doing
tea
bag commercials, he'll believe me he's a genius. I ask you,” Cy said, “was that a verbal agreement? Did we verbally agree he's a genius, or I'm sitting there shitting with the guy?”

Burt looked over at the posters on the wall.

CHILDREN OF THE SAND

The dangers at the beach

aren 't only in the water!

Cy's last production. Budgeted at something like five million dollars. Teenage sirens on the beach at Santa Monica with eyes that turned orange, music going
bwanggg
and they killed you with a look. And Cy got the money. Five million dollars' worth of somebody's sweat.

Cy said, “Emil. I gotta hang up. If he wants to do a picture, wants to do it for scale, you can call me, okay? If not, you can tell him take a buncha wet teabags and put 'em on his head, he'll look better. Okay?” Shaking his head now and putting down the phone. “You got actors,” he said, “are even stupider'n writers.” He swiveled in his desk chair and looked up at Burt. “Okay,” he said. “What?”

Burt took his time. He stood for a moment looking over at his brother with a curdled combination of nausea and awe. Cy with his thin little ferret-like face and his houndstooth jacket. But confidence. Christ. Where the hell did he
get
it?

Burt took a breath. “The
what
is, I want to know the truth about the tip.”

“The tip?” Cy frowned at him.

“Tip,” Burt said. “On the market. That tip about the stock was gonna fall?”

Cy raised his shoulders. Burt was being more of a problem than he'd figured. Cy said, “I already told you that story.”

“I know what's the story, Cy. Now I want the truth. Possibly you'd like me to define the word truth. Nonfiction, okay?”

Cy cocked his head. Cy said, “Jesus. What the hell's been going on? You look terrible. You want a vodka-tonic or something?”

“The truth.” Burt sat on the pigskin sofa.

Cy looked around. He was certainly in trouble. Burt had never passed up a chance to have a drink. “I repeat: what's the matter?”

“Carol's brother in Cleveland's what's the
mat
ter, you jerk.”

“Me?” Cy was looking at him. “
I'm
the jerk? Shit.
I
bought the options through a banker. And you want to know
which
banker, Burt? Leo's. In Freeport. Completely untraceable. And
I'm
the jerk? Shit.”

Cy watched his brother go pacing through the room. Burt in a three-piece navy blue suit. Burt, who ran a Chris-Craft franchise in Malibu and called himself a yachtsman. “Have they questioned him?”

“Who?”

“Carol's brother. The dentist. The purchaser of record. Isn't that who we're discussing?”

“No.” Burt was biting at a cuticle. “No but he's terrified they will. There was something in the papers saying stock manipulation could've figured in the murders.” Burt paced around. “And the guy isn't stupid.”

“The guy isn't
what?
He goes waltzing to his broker and then he buys the stock in his own name, he isn't
stupid
?” Cy said. “I'd like to talk about stupid.”

“Keep talking,” Burt said. On the sofa again but still gnawing at his thumb. “I told him if he's questioned he should tell them we're related. I said, don't lie about something they can check. I said, look, okay, if they ask you why you bought it, what you say is Guatemala. It's public knowledge that the plant's about to open and you figured it was some kind of target for terror.”

Cy thought it over; he nodded. “That's actually beautiful,” he said. “Worse comes to lousy we can
all
give 'em that one.” He swiveled. “It's a hell of a title, by the way. ‘Target for Terror.'” Swiveling back again and shrugging with his hands. “Okay. So you got it. That's it. We're covered.”

Burt shook his head, even more in amazement than in total disagreement. He was trying to be patient. “Cy,” he said. “No. See, if it gets back to
us
what we're covered with is dinosaur shit. These're turds so large they'll make the Guinness Book of Records. I don't know,” Burt said. “I don't know what you've been smoking. Or it's one of your movies where the cops're so dumb they don't even know it's werewolves.”

“Vampires. You're thinking of the one about the dorm? It was vampires.”

“I'm thinking of the one about the jail,” Burt exploded. “I'm thinking of the one about a couple of middle-aged out-of-shape white guys waltzing into Folsom. You want to do that one? You can do it as a nice documentary, Cy.”

There was silence for a second.

Burt said, “I have to have a story that'll check.” He paused, let it marinate. “Otherwise,” he said, “the only thing I've got that I could offer them is you.”

Cy raised his eyes. He was grinning; not feeling any threat, any fear. “Hey Burt. Hey bro. You want to fuck with me?” he said. “I'll deny it, and believe me, I'm a wonderful liar.”

“Except,” Burt said, “that I've got you on cassette. That morning in the kitchen …?”

Cy swung around. “You were
taping
me?”

“Recorder in the sugar bowl, Cy.—You want to try another take?”

Cy didn't move. Then he said, “Sonofabitch. I need air.”

19

The most interesting thing about the dealer's apartment—so far, Mitchell thought—was his collection of guns. There were guns on the built-in shelf of the closet. Right above the Missoni jackets and the Valentino suits. They were nestled into socks. A blue-black Garcia .45 with an eight-round magazine that fitted in the butt. A Smith & Wesson Terrier—a tidy .38 with a two-inch barrel and it weighed about a pound.

He stood at the closet now and poked around the shelf. Next to the wide-brimmed Borsolino hat and the small Tyrolean number with the feather and the camel's hair cap, there was another pair of socks. They were empty and blue. A little worn, a little thin and completely unremarkable except that they were there. On the shelf of the closet. In the company of guns. If he had nothing better to do with his time, he could put them on his feet and he could jump to a conclusion. Maybe, he could think, there'd been another pair of guns. That was suddenly missing. Like Jackie was missing. He could even be a high-jumper: Jackie and Mack. Have guns, will travel. Have guns …

He could stand around admiring the closet—eleven feet of clothes with all the hotshot labels out of Italy and France. Charvet shirts on the wooden hangers that were stolen from the Georges Cinq. Giorgio Armani. Balmain Boutique. Ungaro Uomo. Montana Homme. He could look at all the clothes and he could think about the man … about six-foot-one, about one-sixty-five.

He could go into the bathroom.

He could look at all the curly brown hairs around the sink; he could look at the mustache scissors in an ornamented holder on the shelf.

He could narrow his eyes and get a pretty good picture of the man that got away. He was tall, fairly dark. Figure he could even be passably handsome or at any rate, vain. He'd stand at his well-lighted bathroom mirror in his French-labeled navy blue Dior jockeys
(“Laver eau tiede”)
and he'd cavil with his mustache and slap himself with Bijan and crack a little smile. Am I cute or am I cute?