Pearls of Asia: A Love Story (25 page)

Mac dispensed with the small talk. “Ashley, I need to ask you a couple questions about the night of Jim Grisham’s party. You entered the building a few minutes before midnight with Nadia, and you were seen leaving by yourself about ninety minutes later. What happened? Did they run out of chips and beer?”

Ashley tugged on her dress, trying to ward off a wardrobe malfunction. “That party sucked, big time. I only went because Nadia asked me to go with her at the last second. I had just moved here, you know, and I was hoping to meet some people. It was supposed to be some kind of fundraiser with a bunch of horny old men with lots of spare cash. Nadia introduced me to a few suits she knew, but then this guy flashed a wad of Ben Franklin’s at her and they disappeared. After some old fart offered to fly me to Dubai if I’d play some naked backgammon with him, I knew it was time to get the hell out of there. Since Nadia was no where to be found, I walked out the door and flagged a cab.”

“Do you remember what time Nadia and Mr. Ben Franklin took off from the party?”

“I’m not sure. I’d say it was close to one o’clock. I went to this club over in the Castro called Badlands. Ever hear of it?”

“Who hasn’t? My mother’s a regular there. Look, Ashley, I need to speak to Nadia. Do you know where I can find her?”

“Try the Internet. Nadia always posts her schedule on there.”

“Nadia has a website?”

Ashley smiled and laughed at Mac as though he were her dithering uncle. “Doesn’t every beautiful woman? She has two, actually. One is for her software company. The other is for her…um… admirers. You should check it out;
NaughtyNadia.com
. It’s so hot.”

Mac whipped out his smart phone and moments later was looking at a picture of a long-legged temptress with jet black hair, reclining on a leopard print sofa, wearing a dominatrix outfit and holding a whip. After clicking ‘yes’ to a box asking if he was eighteen years old, he was led to a page filled with a laundry list of options, including a bio, photo gallery, and a menu of “services” with prices ranging from $500 to $25,000. Mac clicked on a link marked “calendar,” and the first line said, “September 17
^th
-18
^th
… Las Vegas.” The next said, “September 19
^th
-24
^th
…San Francisco.” Nadia wouldn’t be returning from Sin City until the day after tomorrow.

“Nadia takes the term ‘working girl’ pretty seriously,” asserted Mac.

“Hey, a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do. Is there anything else you want from me? My phone number, perhaps?”

“Sure. Tell me about your relationship with Paul Osher.”

Ashley’s engaging smile turned upside down, replaced by a stoic stare. “Who is he?”

“Do us both a favor, Ashley,” replied Mac, moving in so close to her face he could smell the glue on her fake eyelashes. This was a stare down contest he wanted to win. “Save the dumb blonde act for your Dubai fan club. Nadia told me she set you two up when you lived in L.A. She also told me he paid for those silicone silos rising out from your chest.”

“I’ve got nothing to say,” hissed Ashley, turning her cold expressionless face to the floor. She looked up again at Mac, returning for round two of the stare down. She wasn’t going to give in to him this time, however. After all, this was a woman who walked the minefields of Afghanistan.

Mac decided to go straight for Ashley’s proverbial jugular. “Did you know about Paul Osher’s romantic relationship with Sheyla Samonte?”

Ashley’s face turned beet red, matching her pink dress. The scowl she gave Mac rivaled the intensity of The Wrath of Mayes. “Hey look,” she said suddenly, turning her eyes away from him, “there’s an empty seat at the bar.” Mac peered through the long black curtain. There were enough empty barstools for a busload of bachelorettes. “You better take it before someone else shows up.”

After showing Mac to his seat, Ashley crossed her arms and blurted, “You know, you’re wrong about Paul. He’s too classy a guy to go out with a high-maintenance whore like Sheyla. Besides, isn’t she your girlfriend?”

“Here’s a news flash Ashley, or Savannah, or whatever the hell your name is. You’re wrong on both counts. Sheyla’s not my girlfriend, and Paul Osher has about as much class as that dress you’re wearing.”

MAC STEWED AT THE
bar, sitting alone in silence, knowing full well that
Pearls of Asia
was the last place he should be. Nadia wasn’t there, and he had already questioned Ashley, so the right thing to do was to just turn around and leave. Don’t be stupid, he thought to himself. Get up and go.

The clattering sound of high-heeled footsteps rushing up the stairs from the basement dressing room delayed his exit. Wearing a tank top dress with a matching belt and the standard stilettos, Sheyla ran over and nearly tackled him before he could rise from his chair. She gave Mac a hug and a kiss a
Pearls of Asia
customer would have had to pay a small ransom for.

“Big Mac?” he asked.

“Isn’t it cute?” giggled Sheyla. “That’s the name the girls call you. I told them we went out for a Happy Meal last night. Oh don’t worry, Mackey. I didn’t dish out the dirt. The girls are just born to gossip, that’s all. Besides, they never let the facts get in the way of a good backstabbing.” Sheyla stepped back to admire him. “Hey Mackey, you look yummy tonight. I swear I could eat you up right now.”

“How about answering a question for me instead? Does Ashley know about you and Paul Osher?”

“I don’t think so. I know I’ve never said anything to her about Paul. Ashley’s a terrific dancer, probably the best we’ve ever had, but she’s not the friendliest girl I’ve ever met. She sort of reminds me of a shark. You know the kind; she eats when she’s hungry and sleeps when she’s tired. I’ll get to know her better when she’s ready to open up. Now, enough about her. Let’s talk about me.”

“You look great as always,” said Mac, “but you look different.”

“You mean gorgeous and glamorous, don’t you? That’s because I’m wearing enough makeup to join the circus. Fake eyelashes, heavy rouge, and lots and lots of lipstick. That’s what the customers want to see when they come to
Pearls of Asia
. We’re just about to start a show.”

“That’s cool. I wouldn’t mind seeing you dance again.”

“Well…I wouldn’t mind seeing you naked again.”

That was the last thing Mac needed to hear. “Sheyla, I’m not so sure I’m ready for that yet.”

“You will be.” She kissed him and placed a set of keys in his hand.

“What are these?”

“They’re the keys to my heart,” she said with a wink. “Actually, they’re the keys to my apartment. One of the food runners told me you were here so I brought them up with me. Go to my place and wait for me. We’ll just talk. I promise.”

“Sheyla, I can’t do this. Plus I know you. You’re going to want to do more than just talk.”

“Please, Mackey. I want to get to know you better. I feel so comfortable with you.” Sheyla flicked her hand along his sculpted chest and playfully pinched a nipple. They had only just met each other, and already she knew how to turn him on faster than a flashlight. “Besides, I know you’re still looking to find a few more pieces to my puzzle. Now be a good boy and go meet me at my place.”

Mac took the keys and headed for the door.

C
HAPTER
F
IFTEEN

Wednesday, September 17, 2008 - 11:30 pm

“According to an unnamed blackjack dealer from the Wynn Hotel in Las Vegas, Paul Osher, grieving husband of murdered beauty queen Michelle Osher, celebrated this past New Year’s Eve in the high-rollers room with several attractive women of Asian descent.”

TMZ.com

S
HEYLA’S WINE CABINET HAD
any wine Mac desired, so long as it was red. He opened a bottle of Opus One, a wine he found easier to pronounce than afford. The cigar humidor in her living room rivaled the kind found in a Las Vegas highroller’s room, and featured a fine selection from Arturo Fuentes. Mac always wondered what an $80 cigar smoked like. He fired one up and discovered he liked them. So did Sheyla’s cat, who followed him around like a KGB spy.

Mac sat down on the tan leather sofa and turned on her 50-inch flat-screen TV. It was bolted onto the wall like a prized painting from the nearby Museum of Modern Art. Manly intuition took him straight to ESPN. Some former jockstraps in high-definition were discussing the weekend’s upcoming slate of NFL games. Sports were fun to Mac, but when it came to Sundays, football was religion.

Mac took a moment to admire the view of the Bay Bridge, lit up in lights like a Hollywood premiere. Here he was in a beautiful woman’s lavish apartment, smoking an expensive cigar, drinking a glass of vintage wine, and watching ESPN on HD. At that precise moment, everything should have been right with the world.

Instead, he was scared to death.

What was he doing hanging out in a transsexual woman’s apartment, acting like an obedient Cocker Spaniel waiting for his master to return home from a long day’s work? Why was he indulging himself instead of working to solve the biggest murder case San Francisco had seen in years? What if Mayes was right, that Sheyla’s seductive ways were only a means to distract him? Why did just being in her presence cause him to lose all sense of self-control? Over and over, Mac asked himself the same question. What the hell was he doing?

Sheyla’s cat joined him on the couch. “How did I get here?” he asked the little black minx. She was too bored to answer.

On a table next to the sofa were several silver-framed photographs. Most were of Sheyla and her girlfriends taken while they were having fun out on the town. Others were just of Sheyla, wearing exotic costumes or formal gowns while participating in beauty pageants, or sunning herself in a bikini at some far-flung five-star resort. There was even one of her in full scuba gear holding a spear. Over on a bookshelf was an old black and white glossy, like a school photo, of someone who had the same smile and eyes as Sheyla. Perhaps it was her brother. Then Mac remembered she didn’t have a brother.

There were no pictures anywhere of Sheyla with Paul Osher. In fact, there didn’t appear to be any pictures of Sheyla with any man.

Mac walked into her bedroom, which was dominated by a king-sized four-poster bed. Lacy white curtains were tied across the towering mahogany posts. Fluffy throw pillows were everywhere, enough to cushion an avalanche. The bedspread was a velvety charcoal black, and the sheets were imported red silk. Mac wondered what stories the walls would tell if they could talk.

Another flat panel TV hung on her bedroom wall. He pulled open a set of double doors that led into a huge walk-in closet. On one side were slacks, sweaters, and over a dozen pairs of custom fit jeans. On the other side were cocktail dresses, evening gowns, and silky lingerie. In the middle of the room stood a dresser filled with expensive jewelry and accessories. He opened a drawer and found dozens of silk unmentionables He picked up a bra and looked at the label. He had never heard of La Perla. At the back of the closet was a wall featuring over a hundred pairs of designer shoes. Say whatever you want about Sheyla, thought Mac. This woman knew how to shop.

Mac returned to the living room couch to find a movie to watch. He hit upon “Forrest Gump,” one of his favorites. The story of a flawed man, who set his sails to wherever the winds of life would take him, had always fascinated him.

The sound of keys jingling at the front door signaled Sheyla’s arrival. “I see you’ve made yourself comfortable,” she said, entering the apartment with her long hair tied in a ponytail. Sheyla was wearing her standard travel uniform of sweat pants and a t-shirt, accessorized by the Louis Vuitton travel bag she always took to work. She helped herself to Mac’s glass of wine, leaving a lipstick stain on the rim. Then she helped herself to his cigar.

“I love this movie,” announced Sheyla, tipping her head back and blowing smoke rings into the air. “I watch it all the time.” Sheyla snuggled up next to Mac on the couch. He was excited, nervous, and terrified. He couldn’t decide if his next move should be to put his arm around her, or arrest her.

“What am I doing here, Sheyla?”

“Relaxing. Now watch the movie for a bit while I take a quick shower. I hate coming home and smelling like tuna sashimi.”