Strip Tease (12 page)

Mordecai said, “Please. It was an accident.”

“That fucking roach was my retirement. Understand?”

“You want to retire a rich man, Mr. Shad, then listen to my offer.” Mordecai signaled for his secretary to leave the room. “Please pay attention,” he said to Shad.

Shad held a grasshopper and a Japanese beetle delicately in between the thumb and forefinger of each hand. He was making the dead bugs dance a little jig on the table. “Go ahead,” he told the lawyer. “I’m perfectly tuned in.”

Mordecai unveiled the color slide from Paul Guber’s bachelor party. “Take a look.”

“What is it?”

“Here. Hold it by the corner.”

Shad put the insects back in formation, and turned his scrutiny to the slide. He held it to the lamp, and squinted with one eye at the stamp-size image.

He said, “Well, lookie there.”

“Do you know where that photo was taken?”

“Sure. At the club.”

“And who’s in the picture?”

“Me and Erin and a couple asshole drunks.”

“Erin would be the stripper?”

Shad’s head turned slowly. “She would be a dancer. The best.”

His voice was murderous. Mordecai thought: Good Christ, now I’ve insulted the monster’s girlfriend. Can anything else possibly go wrong?

The lawyer hesitantly moved on: “The young man’s name is Paul Guber. He’s my client.”

“Then God help him.”

The older man, the one swinging the wine bottle—do you recognize him?”

Shad glanced at the picture again. “Nope. And it’s a champagne bottle. Korbel, I would guess.”

“The man’s name is David Dilbeck. Do you follow politics, Mr. Shad?”

“Do I look like I follow politics?”

“Mr. Dilbeck is a United States congressman.”

Shad thought about that as he studied the slide once more. He said, “Man’s put himself in one helluva posture. I’m guessing you’re gonna sue his ass.”

“It may come to that,” Mordecai said. “However, I’m hoping the matter can be settled privately, in a reasonable atmosphere.”

” ‘However?’” Shad disapproved of snooty verbiage. He pinched one of Mordecai’s plump cheeks and said: “I liked you better with the scorpion in your gullet.”

“Quit!” the lawyer cried out.

Shad released him. “So how do I fit in? And no more shrinks. I’ve had it with phonies.”

Mordecai rubbed the sting from his face. “You saw everything, Mr. Shad, the entire assault. When Dilbeck’s people learn I’ve got an eyewitness, they will—pardon the expression—shit a brick.”

‘Tell me,” Shad said. “How much money can a lousy congressman have?”

“Trust me. The lousier they are, the more they have.” Mordecai eased himself out of Shad’s lunging range. “The thing to remember, always, is that we’re not after Dilbeck. The serious money is with the men who own his soul.”

Shad was toying with his dead insects again. “I should try this on a chessboard,” he remarked.

“Please,” said Mordecai. “Trust me. I know about Dilbeck—both of us were Mondale delegates back in ‘84.”

Shad said, “I may just cry.”

“We’re talking millions of dollars!”

The man appeared to be serious. Shad postponed his decision to stomp the shit out of him.

“Millions,” Mordecai repeated, huskily. “The people who own David Dilbeck, the people who’d do anything to keep him in office—they’re some of the richest bastards in Florida. They’ve got money to burn.”

“In that case,” Shad said, “let’s burn some.”

Later, over a tub of vanilla Haagen-Daz, Urbana Sprawl told Erin that it was about time she had some competition.

“An off night,” Erin muttered. She had danced poorly, with a smile so forced and insincere that only the drunkest customers wouldn’t have noticed. “My concentration’s shot,” she said.

“You wanna talk about it?”

“Mr. Peepers is dead.”

Urbana whispered, “Oh my Lord.”

“Possibly murdered.”

“Sweet Jesus.”

Until now, Erin had told no one the true reason for Sgt. Al Garcia’s visit to the Eager Beaver. The other dancers had assumed that the topic was Erin’s ex-husband, in whom many police agencies had expressed interest.

Urbana Sprawl begged for the details of Jerry Killian’s death.

“It’s a long story,” Erin said, “and I think I’m in the middle.”

She reached back and locked the dressing room door. “Apparently somebody drowned the little guy.” “Because of you?”

“Indirectly.”

“Then you’d better hide, girl. Come stay with me and Roy.” Urbana’s boyfriend, Roy, was a mechanic for an outlaw motorcycle gang. He and Urbana specialized in unexpected house guests. Erin said thanks, anyway.

“I was you, I’d be on the first plane out.”

“Not without Angela. And first I need more money.” Her options were limited, and all were expensive.

Urbana suggested table dances and private parties. “You’re the only one who won’t.”

“It may come to that.”

“There’s other ways, too,” Urbana said, gravely. “I know you wouldn’t, but some girls do. It’s all according to what you need, and how bad.”

Erin patted her friend’s hand and told her not to worry. “I’ll rob Jiffy Marts before I’ll turn tricks. Urbana, would you tell Mr. Orly I’m knocking off early tonight?”

Erin was too tired to scrub her makeup or take off the dancing clothes. Over the red teddy and G-string, she put on gray sweats and a baggy T-shirt. She tied her hair in a loose ponytail, folded the tip money in her purse and put her pumps in a Penney’s bag. She looked at the hollow-eyed face in the mirror and said, “What a hot number I am.”

“Anything I can do to help,” Urbana said, “you name it.”

“Break Marvela’s legs?”

“Go home now, honey. Get some sleep.”

“Sleep? What’s that?” Erin said goodbye and unlocked the dressing room door. Monique Sr. was in the dim hallway, struggling to repair a broken garter.

“Of all nights,” she said. “John Chancellor’s at table eleven.”

“Yeah?” Erin said. “I’m a Brokaw fan, myself.”

Erin went home and fixed herself a martini. She put Tom Petty full blast on the tape deck and took off her domes. Lying on the bed, she contemplated familiar gaunt faces on the wall—posters of legendary rock stars, including a few who were still alive. The posters were a gift from one of Erin’s ardent customers, a concert promoter. He was so eager to impress her that he once forged Peter Frampton’s autograph on a compact disc. It was beyond pathetic.

Erin’s apartment was decorated minimally because it was a temporary stop. She refused to invest in anything that wasn’t plastic and portable and couldn’t be moved in one day by a woman laboring alone. Even the sound system, Erin’s only extravagance, broke down into four lightweight boxes.

Nothing connected her soul to the place, not even memories. The three men who’d been in the bedroom were as forgettable as the discount decor. One of them hadn’t gotten his pants off before Erin told him to get lost. She’d been watching “60 Minutes,” her favorite TV program, when the young visitor remarked that he didn’t like the show because “there was too much talking.” Erin ordered him to button his trousers and hit the bricks. Never again would she date a baseball player—at least, nothing below Triple A.

She bunched a pillow under her head. Acidly she thought: Quite a life I’ve made for myself!

The telephone looked red-hot on the bedstand; so many possibilities. Call Mom and borrow money for more lawyers? Perhaps when Biscayne Bay freezes over.

Call Garcia and spill everything? Erin doubted the detective would be moved to tears by a recounting of her domestic problems. He would, however, be greatly intrigued by the weird details of Jerry Killian’s blackmail plot. A homicide with political connections would be a welcome break from the drudgery of domestics and drug murders.

Maybe that was the phone call to make, Erin thought. Get it over with.

She changed her mind and put the empty martini glass on the floor. Jimi Hendrix loomed over the headboard, tonguing his left-handed Stratocaster. Dead at twenty-seven. Erin thought: Not me, buster.

She took the telephone off the bedstand and balanced it on her tummy. She punched a number in Deerfield Beach and closed her eyes, thinking please, please, please.

Angela answered on the third ring.

“Baby?”

“Momma?”

“It’s me. Did I wake you?”

“Where are you, Momma?”

“Is your father there? Talk softly if he is.”

“Can you come see us? Every day we go for rides in the hospital.”

“Which hospital, baby?”

“Different ones. Daddy dresses up like Doctor Shaw.”

“Oh God,” Erin said.

“Then he puts me in a wheelchair and pushes real fast. Can you come see us? We go real fast—you can push, too.”

“Angela, listen to me.”

“I think I gotta go. Love you, Momma.”

“Angela—”

Long silence. Somebody breathing. Then a wet cough.

“Angie?”

Darrell Grant laughed, high-pitched and juiced by speed. “I gotta get this number changed.”

Erin said, “You are one dumb shit. If you get caught using that little girl—”

“Hell, I won’t get caught. It’s a dream setup, didn’t she tell you? I stole a doctor’s jacket, a real stethoscope, the works. Man, I look so legit! Fact, I’m thinking seriously about trying some gynecology on the side—”

“Darrell, they’ll take her away! The HRS will take her away from both of us. Forever.”

“Lord, you do worry. I already told you, I won’t get caught. The setup is, I dress Angie in pajamas so she looks like a real patient. Her Cookie Monster pajamas, remember? The ones with the little feetsies in the bottom—”

“You asshole.”

“Now, don’t be judgmental. You, who flashes her tits for a living. Don’t fucking judge me, sweetcakes—”

Erin hurled the phone to the floor. She was too mad to cry, too upset to sleep. She pulled on a sweatshirt and blue jeans, and grabbed her car keys off the dresser.

Special Agent Tom Cleary wore a burgundy bathrobe and brown floppy bedroom slippers. To Erin, he looked practically adorable. She’d never seen him rumpled and ungroomed. Sleep had sculpted his sandy hair into a sharp peak, like the crest of a cardinal.

“Coffee?” he croaked.

They sat in the kitchen and spoke in low tones while Cleary’s wife heated a bottle for the baby, who was yowling upstairs. It was the couple’s fourth child in six years and the stress of fecundity was taking a toll. When Erin apologized for the lateness of the hour, Mrs. Cleary said it was no problem. No problem at all! She was about to explode with artificial politeness. The moment she went upstairs, her husband sagged with relief.

“I need some help,” Erin said, leaning forward.

“Darrell again?”

“Naturally.” She told him about her ex-husband becoming a police informant, about the expensive court fight, about Darrell Grant’s wheelchair scam with Angela as a human prop—

“Back up,” the agent interjected. “He’s got custody? That doesn’t seem possible.”

Erin’s throat felt chalky. “The judge says I’m an unfit mother. How ‘bout them apples?”

Cleary was incredulous. “Unfit?” The word came out in a horrified whisper, as if he spoke of a dreaded disease. “What in the world… Erin, did something happen?”

She thought: I can’t tell him about the job. The Eager Beaver he would never understand.

“It’s a long story,” she said.

“Darrell got to the judge?”

“Well, something did.”

The coffee was ready. Cleary poured. Upstairs, the baby finally stopped crying. Erin said, “Tom, he’s turning my daughter into a gypsy.”

The FBI man nodded soberly. “The problem is, we can’t stretch jurisdiction.” She started to say something but Cleary cut her off. “Let me finish, Erin. Your divorce, that’s a civil matter, totally out of our scope. But if you’ve got proof the judge is corrupt, then maybe we can do business—”

“I don’t have proof,” Erin said sharply. “I thought that was your department.”

Cleary’s eyes flashed but he continued: “The wheelchair racket—now I agree it’s despicable. But basically you’re talking grand larceny, which the Bureau won’t touch.”

“But the locals have Darrell on the damn payroll!”

“Listen,” Cleary said, “if I tried to run this one past my supervisor—well, there’s no chance in hell. He’d throw it right back in my face.”

The agent was rueful but unwavering. Erin felt whipped. “A phone call from you and the cops would drop him like a rock,” she said. “One lousy phone call, Tom.”

“I don’t work that way. Rules are rules.”

“But you helped me before.”

“I ran a name. That’s easy, Erin.” Cleary took off his glasses and kneaded his temples. “What I cannot do,” he said wearily, “is open a federal case on your ex-husband. I’m very sorry.”

“Me, too,” Erin mumbled into her coffee cup.

The agent asked if the information about Jerry Killian had been helpful. Oh yes, Erin said, very helpful. She thanked him for the coffee and rose quickly to leave, but not before Cleary asked: “How does he fit into all this? Killian, I mean.”

“Another long story,” Erin said. Cleary would panic if he knew Jerry Killian was dead. Automatically he would connect the murder to his own leak of the computer check. Next he’d feel compelled to confess the breach of regulations. Several cubic yards of paperwork would accumulate before an actual field investigation of Killian’s drowning began. Meanwhile, Tom Cleary most certainly would be transferred to the FBI equivalent of Siberia, where his wife would ponder a future of frigid winters and limited day-care possibilities. Eventually the Bureau might sort out the facts of Killian’s death and exonerate the exiled Cleary. By that time, though, Darrell Grant could be safely in Tasmania, or anywhere, with Angela.

Erin had no time to wait for the FBI. And she wanted Agent Tom Cleary in Miami, in case she needed him.

As he walked her to the door, Cleary asked where she was working.

“A dive,” Erin replied, “tending bar.” Not an unmanageable lie. The same one she told her grandparents.

Cleary said, “Which dive?”

“You don’t know the place, Tom. It’s definitely not in your jurisdiction.”

The agent accepted the sarcasm impassively. He said he hated to think of her slinging drinks. Erin said the money wasn’t bad.

Cleary, his voice heavy with guilt: “On this Darrell thing, I wish I could bend the rules, but I can’t. I simply can’t.”

“I understand, Tom.” Erin checked discreetly for the wife, then pecked him on the cheek. “Thanks, anyway,” she said.

When she got home, Mexican championship boxing was on ESPN. The face of one fighter was purple and pulped, blood trickling from what appeared to be three nostrils. The other boxer aimed meticulous jabs at the man’s fractured nose, until the bleeding got so bad that the referee lost his footing on the slippery canvas.

At one time in her life, Erin couldn’t have comprehended how a human being could inflict such misery on an opponent he scarcely knew. Now, thinking of her ex-husband, Erin began to understand the boxer’s drive: a simple transfer of aggression, from real life to the ring.

By morning, she had cooled off. She did one hundred sit-ups, reassembled the telephone and tried another phone call. This, too, was a long shot.

Erb Crandall noticed something new in the front hallway of Malcolm J. Moldowsky’s penthouse. It was a color portrait of John Mitchell, former attorney general and convicted felon.

“A dear friend and mentor,” Moldy explained. “Savagely maligned, long before your time. An American tragedy.”

“I know all about him, Malcolm.”

“Political genius,” said Moldowsky. “Misplaced loyalty was his fatal flaw. He took the fall for Nixon.”

“Who didn’t?” Erb Crandall had been in college during the Watergate hearings. He remembered John Mitchell as a surly old dog who couldn’t lie his way out of a paper bag.

“The ultimate insider,” Moldy said, aglow. He stroked the frame of the portrait in a tender manner that worried Crandall.

“Don’t you have a hero?” Moldowsky asked.

“Nope.”

“That’s very cynical, Erb.”

“People with heroes usually believe in something. How about you?”