Unscrewed (20 page)

“Yeah, but where are they on the desperation scale?”

I smirked in his general direction. Never turn your back on a pirate.

“I’m just kidding,” he said. “I bet you can bring him over here.”

“Who?” I yanked my attention from the eye patch. An influx of adrenaline had squeezed my heart up tight in my throat by the time I motioned toward the stage. “Him?”

“Yeah.”

I laughed. It sounded like an ass on nitrous oxide. “’Fraid I’m fresh out of million-dollar—” I began, but Eddie was already pressing a piece of paper into my hand.

I glanced down. It was a hundred-dollar bill. My lungs joined my heart in my esophagus. “Are you serious?”

“You’re the one who thinks her boyfriend’s a cold-blooded murderer. Time to find out for sure. Fish or cut bait. Shit or get off the pot. Screw him or screw him. Cut the bull or turn him loose with—”

“Okay!” I snapped my gaze to him. He was still grinning. I tightened my fist around the bill and tried to marshal my brain cells into some kind of coherent order. “What do I do now?”

He shrugged. “Beats the hell out of me.”

“Tempting,” I said.

He laughed. “Put it on the table and let kismet do its thing.”

“Kismet?”

He nodded.

I set the bill beside my drink.

The volume picked up. Clifton was doing some kind of bumping grind and the crowd was working itself into a preorgasmic frenzy.

By the time he was standing on his hands, I felt a little light-headed.

Two tables away, a waitress wriggled through the mob, looking harried. Eddie picked up the hundred and flagged her down. She shimmied over and leaned close. I couldn’t hear him over the man-thirsty mob, but when the two of them lifted their gazes to me, I was pretty sure of the direction of their conversation. I willed myself not to blush—when pigs eat Lean Cuisine.

The waitress shrugged, took the money, and moved away.

“I was thinking kismet was something a little more nebulous,” I shouted. And Eddie laughed. Fifteen minutes later, the show came to a grinding, ear-shattering halt. I studied the crowd, but if the senator’s body double was there, he was either female, gay, or a twenty-something stripper stuffed to the gills with steroids. The mob was beginning to dissipate and Clifton hadn’t appeared to tell me how he had flown to Boston so Senator Rivera could kill his fiancée.

I stood up, feeling foolish…and as horny as a teenage tuba player.

Eddie grabbed my sleeve. “Where you going?”

The volume had decreased but still held a pretty good beat. “There’s got to be a better way.”

He snagged my sleeve and pulled me down beside him. “What about kismet?”

“Kismet, my ass. I—” I began, but in that instant, a man appeared beside Eddie. I glanced up. He was dressed in a white shirt and black trousers, but I was pretty sure I’d be able to pick Pirate Man out of a crowd for the rest of my coherent life. I took a deep breath and shrank back down. Almost missing my chair, I teetered for a moment, then slid into place.

“Hi. I’m Clifton. Patricia said you wanted to see me.”

I was staring openmouthed. Eddie dug his elbow between my ribs.

“Yes. Yes, I…Yes,” I said.

I could feel Eddie’s rumbling laughter close beside me. He thrust me away a couple inches, rose to a half-erect position, and extended his hand. “I’m Eddie Friar.” They shook. “This is Christina.” Clifton’s fingers engulfed mine but finally our hands parted. I didn’t know what to do next. Speech was out of the question and I was afraid I’d get trampled if I fainted.

“Do you have a minute?” Eddie asked.

“Sure.” Clifton’s voice was a hormone-sluicing rumble. He took the seat across from me. I glanced at him and shot my gaze away. My face felt as hot as a radiator.

Silence misted around us.

“Great show,” Eddie said finally.

The pirate was watching me with eyes like glowing faggots. I was blushing down to my short hairs, secretly living out a scene in a romance novel I’d read when I was thirteen. I don’t remember the title, but it was about a pirate and a virgin. I think it was called
The Pirate and the Virgin.
Romance novels aren’t always subtle. “How about you, Christina?” he asked. “What’d you think of the show?”

I tried to talk, but the scoundrel had tied the virgin to the yardarm and was torturing her with unrelenting kisses down her midline. Those pirates…

“Did you like it?” he prompted.

I blinked. Eddie gave me another elbow in the ribs.

“Aye…Aye…” I could feel the two of them staring at me. Was I talking pirate-speak? “Yes.” I was starting to sputter a little, maybe because of the excess saliva. “It was…” For a while I think he’d tortured her with the nine-inch handle of a cat-o’-nine-tails. And then they’d buried his treasure. “…nice.”

Clifton laughed. The sound rumbled around me. I felt my breastbone melt. He leaned back, hooking his thumbs behind him on the chair. The neck of his shirt stretched open, revealing a whole dumpload of tight, mounded muscle. “So, are you two married?”

I was attempting to speak, but in my mind I was trying to remember the last time I’d been tortured with anything more stimulating than the
Times
crossword puzzle. The latest had asked for a two-word phrase for a type of medieval protection. I’d tried “broad sword” more than once, in concession to Laney’s current gig. Not enough letters. And actually just one word. Such academic pursuits appealed to the psychologist in me. Turning my mind away from Clifton’s sword appealed to the woman who didn’t want to make a damned fool of herself.

“Just friends,” Eddie said.

“Ahh.” The Pirate King was eyeing me again. I felt hot down to my shoelaces. It seemed outrageous that he could be interested in me, but in
The Pirate and the Virgin,
the virgin hadn’t been particularly stunning, while the pirate…“Have you been to a male revue before, Christina?”

I swallowed some estrogen, forgot about the
L.A. Times,
and steadied my voice, my mind spinning out of control. What if the world had gone mad and he wanted to take me home? What if he didn’t have protection? What if I didn’t remember how to do it? And why the hell hadn’t I shaved my—Eddie was poking me again. “No,” I said. “No, I haven’t.”

“Was it what you expected?” Clifton rumbled, shifting his thigh closer to mine.

“Chastity belt!” I sputtered.

Eddie turned toward me like I’d lost my mind.

“It’s a…it’s a form of medieval…” I blinked. “…protection.”

I chanced a glance at Clifton, pirate-dark and as alluring as a thousand-calorie cappuccino.

Eddie cleared his throat. “She doesn’t usually drink,” he said.

“Ahhh.” The pirate nodded. His throat was broad above the snowy white shirt that matched his teeth. He leaned forward. His shoulders were massive. They filled my vision and would probably do so for some nights to come. If I didn’t manage to die of embarrassment before returning home. “Well, Christina…” He took my hand in his and kissed my knuckles. “I’m happy to broaden your horizons.” He squeezed my fingers. I could feel an orgasm bubbling up in its wake and braced myself against the cessation of skin against skin, wondering wildly what the hell to do next. Vainly searching my purse for a condom seemed a little obvious. Then again, leaping across the table—

“How about you, Eddie?” Clifton asked. “You been here before?”

“No. I hadn’t heard of this place before Christina called me.”

“Well, I’m glad she did. We—”

But suddenly my breath caught in my throat. A Hispanic man stood not twenty feet away. He was tall, mid-forties, attractive, and though his hair was black and his clothing casual, I couldn’t look away. He was a young version of Senator Rivera.

“You okay?” Eddie’s inquiry barely broke through my haze.

I managed to stare in hypnotized wonder. Now that it came down to it, I had no idea what to do.

Eddie tensed almost imperceptibly, but he picked up the thread. “Hey,” he said, tilting his head casually to the right. “Who is that guy? He looks familiar.”

Clifton turned. “Oh, that’s Julio. Julio Manderos. He owns the Strip.”

“Yeah?”

“Bought it for a song. Built it up from nothing. Listen, Eddie, you’re in pretty good shape,” he said. “You dance?”

Eddie must have responded, but I had risen like a ghost in a trance and was making my way through the milling crowd.

“Mr. Manderos?” He was moving away. I skirted two giggling girls no older than my shoes. “Julio?”

He turned. His eyes struck me. I almost stumbled back. The clothing was different. The bearing was altered. But his eyes were Rivera’s.

“Can I help you?” His voice was a low, rich blend of Spanish-English.

“How well did you know Martinez?”

He watched me for a fragmented instant. Dark emotion flitted across his face, but then he smiled. “I am afraid I do not know anyone by that name.” He nodded with old-world grace. “If you’ll excuse me…”

I hurried up behind him, heart pounding. “What a terrible tragedy.”

He kept walking.

“Mr. Manderos,” I said, grabbing his sleeve. I could feel Eddie nudge up beside me. The pirate was a couple paces behind him. Maybe he doubled as protection, but I didn’t think so. Usually men that pretty don’t like to mess up all that mouthwatering muscle.

“I did not know her,” Manderos insisted, turning toward me with a scowl.

“Then how did you know she was a woman?” I asked.

24

M
ANDEROS SMILED AGAIN, but there was tension around his mouth and something else entirely in his eyes. He glanced at Eddie, past him to the room at large, then back at me. “Perhaps you would wish to converse alone in my office,” he said.

Something in me suggested that I would rather swallow my own head than converse alone in his office. I think it might have been called “cowardice,” or maybe “good sense.” It was impossible to say. I was just coming down from an estrogen high that was burning its way through my pants.

I glanced to my right. The bouncers who hovered near the door were big enough to wrestle dinosaurs. But seventy-six failed relationships is a lot of motivation.

“Yes. Thank you,” I said, and stepped forward, but Eddie caught my arm.

“What the hell are you doing?” he whispered.

“Just talking.”

He glanced toward the bouncers. Apparently, they didn’t look any less intimidating from his point of view. “Then I’m talking with you,” he said. I had known for some time that Eddie was one of the good guys, but at that moment his gesture all but brought tears to my eyes.

“Good evening,” Manderos said, and reached past me toward Eddie.

They shook and made introductions.

Manderos nodded, his expression solemn, almost sad. “The young lady will be perfectly safe with me, Mr. Friar. If you but wait here, Mr. Corona will assure you of that.” Motioning to a waitress, he asked her to fetch them whatever they wished and lifted a hand toward the back room.

I felt a little like a dead man walking. His office was decorated in ultramodern decor, in sharp contrast to the rest of the club.

“Please, sit,” he said, and motioned to a love seat upholstered with red crushed velvet.

I sat.

He poured sparkling water into two tumblers and handed me one.

“I do not believe we have had a proper introduction,” he said.

“Christina.” I felt very somber and ultimately unhorny. “Christina McMullen.”

He nodded. “I would bet much that you come from a fine family, Ms. Christina.”

I didn’t know how I was supposed to respond. I was in uncharted water and a little bit drunk, so I steadied my tipsy boat and said the first words that came to mind. “My mother thinks I’ve ruined her life. My father hasn’t spoken more than five words to me in as many years, and the last time I saw my brother he left a dead rat in my freezer.”

He gave me a look I couldn’t decipher, something between confusion and humor, but then he took a deep breath and spoke. “Mama died shortly after giving me life,” he said. “She was but fifteen years of age.” He paced to the window. It was blacker than silt behind the club. “I do not know who my father might have been.”

I had to admit even
my
pedigree looked brighter by comparison.

“I spent some years in an orphanage.” He wasn’t looking at me. “Have you ever been to an orphanage in Mexico?”

“I grew up in Illinois.”

“This was not such a pleasant place. I was happy when I was selected to go to a foster home.” There was tension in his shoulders, a tightness in his hands. “But not so happy as Raul, the man who would put a pretty boy in his bed,
sí?
”

I suddenly felt like I was in a bad dream. Not a pirate in sight. “Mr. Manderos…” I don’t know what I was going to say, but when he turned toward me, I stopped, words corked up tight in my mind. His eyes looked as old and sad as death itself.

“Do you believe that all sins are equal in the eyes of our Lord, Ms. Christina?”

“I…” I shook my head, out of words.

He smiled grimly. “The sisters at Casa de Angeles had taught me not to steal, but this man, he had much money, at least it seemed so to an orphan boy from Charcas.” He drew in a hard breath. It sounded shaky. “He very much liked his tequila. When he passed out one night, I took the money I had found hidden in a boot beneath his bed. I took it all. Every peso. When I was twelve years of age I came to America.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. I felt foolishly pampered, horribly weak.

“But there are not many jobs for scrawny boys of Aztec descent in Waco, Texas. Not many…” He smiled without humor. “What is the word…
legitimate
jobs.”

“I haven’t come to cause trouble for you,” I said.

He paced the room. “Why is it that you have come, Ms. Christina?”

I waited, trying to figure out how to word my response. But there was no good way to phrase the questions roaring around in my head. “I think Salina Martinez was murdered.”

His body was absolutely motionless. “I have murdered no one. This I promise you.”

“Can you say the same for Senator Rivera?”

He seemed to pale under the natural mocha of his skin.

“You know him,” I said.

He sat down abruptly on the black vinyl stool across from me, looking temporarily stunned.

“I need to know the truth.”

He shook his head, looking dazed. “I have done nothing for which I am ashamed.”

I wished I could say the same. “Then tell me what happened.”

“I cannot.”

I stiffened my spine, turning my back on the pretty boy who had somehow made his way alone to the land of the free, only to learn that nothing comes free. “Better me than the LAPD.” It was a threat. Probably not subtle. “Help me.”

“Why?”

“I have a friend who…I know someone who is involved.”

“Who is this someone?”

“Jack Rivera.”

I watched him wince involuntarily.

“Please,” I said. “I need to know. For me. Just for me.”

He smiled. It was sadder than tears. “There are those who say that women cannot keep secrets.”

“I’m not a woman.” Technically that may have been a lie. And a dumb-ass thing to say. “I’m a psychologist.”

He looked unimpressed.

“And a former cocktail waitress.”

He scowled. “What is Senator Rivera’s son to you?”

I drew a breath and shook my head. “Do you know him?”

He looked up, eyes vacant, face drawn. “We have not met.”

“But you know the senator.”

He was gripping his glass in both hands but didn’t drink. “He is a good man. That is all I know.”

“Please, Mr. Manderos, I need to…” I glanced toward the door, embarrassed for myself, ashamed of the world. “I would like to trust someone. A man,” I corrected. “But I…” I shook my head. “I know I’m lucky. I come from a good…from a decent family. I’ve had a good education. And I’m smart.” I felt teary-eyed. Alcohol does that to me. That and the memory of past relationships. “But the men I care about…” I shrugged. “They’re sometimes cruel.”

“Perhaps your image of cruelty and mine are not one and the same.”

My throat felt dry. I took a drink. “Some of them try to kill me.”

He raised his brows, probably attempting to figure out if I could possibly be telling the truth.

“What are the chances, huh?” I said, and stifled a sniffle.

“Ms. Christina…” Leaning forward, he set his glass aside and did the same with mine. “You seem to be a fine lady. Wise.” He smiled. “Beautiful.”

“I—” My voice cracked. I cleared my throat. “I just need to know.” The words were no more than a whisper.

“Why?” His question was no louder. His hands were warm around mine. “What can you do? She is already dead.”

“I can have peace of mind.”

He smiled mistily. “Such peace is not so easy to find. This I know.”

“What else do you know?” I was drilling him with my eyes, hoping against hope.

He leaned back, studying me. Silence stretched between us.

“Pornography is not so bad a life,” he said finally.

I blinked at him. My eyelashes felt fat.

He shrugged. “Not compared to some. But the drugs…It is difficult to quit the drugs.”

His meaning dawned slowly. “He helped you. Senator Rivera. He helped you get clean.”

“He saved my life.”

“And in exchange you became his double.”

His smile was uncertain, and somehow I could imagine him as a little boy, dark eyes bright with mischief. “I won’t inform the police,” I said. “I swear to God. If you tell me the truth, I’ll keep it to myself. I just…I need to know.”

“At times, upon his request, I would assume his identity.”

“It was you. On the plane to Boston. It was you.”

He stared at me, then, “No,” he said finally. “It was not.”

I felt myself pale. “Then you were in the car. Near her house.”

He closed his eyes. “Salina Martinez did not love him.”

“You knew her,” I breathed.

“
Sí.
I knew her,” he admitted.

There was something about the inflection of his words. My mouth opened. I sucked in air. “You…
knew
her.”

His smile was sad. “She was young. And demanding. And difficult. But she took a liking to me. I cannot say why, though…” He shrugged. “I am not yet so very bad at my former profession.”

I stared google-eyed. “He
hired
you to…to…”

“At times.”

“That night? The night she died?”

He looked pale and broken. “They had argued. Senator Rivera wished for me to soothe her. I went to his house. She did not know to expect me.”

“Did you—”

“I did not kill her. I swear on Mama’s grave, I did not. The door was open. I went in. Called her name. She did not answer, and then I saw her.” The words, once uncorked, spilled out. He swallowed, eyes haunted. “I know something of death, Ms. Christina. Perhaps I should have stayed, but I admit, I was afraid. I did not even go to her.”

“You called the police.”

“From a pay phone.”

“Who killed her?”

He shook his head. “I have heard she died of causes that are natural.”

“And you believe that?”

He was silent a moment, then, “A man of my history does not have the luxury to believe otherwise.”

“You have to go to the police. Tell them the truth.”

He smiled. “What are the chances they will take the word of an orphaned whore from Charcas?”

“You’re innocent.”

“I was an innocent in Charcas also. Raul did not care.”

“Rivera believes his father is guilty.”

“He is wrong. I am certain. You must tell him differently.”

“I don’t know differently,” I said.

He held my gaze with his and rose slowly to his feet. Drawing me up beside him, he kissed my hand. “Then you must do what you must do,” he said.