Deal Breaker (15 page)

“I’m one of the owners of these dial-a-porn companies. A lot of the lines work out of this building.”

“I’m not sure I understand,” Myron said. “What do
you mean, topless girls are illegal? Almost every girl in that magazine is naked.”

“Not in the ads for 900 lines,” Lucy corrected. “Couple years back a law was passed. Nine hundred lines had to go clean. Look here.” She turned a page and pointed at another ad. “The girl might look suggestive, but she can’t be naked. And look at the name of the lines. Stuff like ‘Secret Confessions’ or ‘Talk to Girls.’ Now look at the ones for the 800 lines. Hard core. ‘Cum Between My Tits,’ stuff like that.”

Myron remembered his conversation with Tawny on the 900 line. He had been struck by the fact that she said nothing dirty. “So you can only have phone sex on the other lines?”

“Right. You see, you need real permission for those. That’s how the government sees it. Any asshole can call a 900 line. The charges are automatic. They start almost immediately after your call is answered. But not with an 800 line or one of the other numbers. You have to use either your credit card or a callback. That’s the way you get billed.”

“So all that talk about 900 lines being dirty—”

“Is bullshit,” Lucy finished. “They’re cons. We can’t say one dirty thing on those lines. We use them as lures mostly, because they’re so easy to use. A guy just has to dial. No credit card. No callbacks. Most of the time we talk about skinny-dipping or massages—suggestive but not sexual. Get him excited, you know what I mean?”

“I think so, yes.”

“These guys call horny anyway. I mean, most are so hard up, they’ll stick it in a knothole to get relief. What we try to do is get him to say the first dirty word, which usually isn’t too difficult. Once he does, we say, ‘Oh, baby, I can’t talk dirty on this line, but you should call
me back at X number with a credit card.’ The guys calls it and gets charged all over again.”

“Aren’t they afraid of how it’ll look on their credit card bill?” Myron asked.

Lucy shook her head. She was still undulating. It was a combination of irritating and erotic. “The company names are usually pretty discreet,” she explained. “We bill under names like Norwood Incorporate or Telemark—not Hot Lesbos or Sucking Starlet. You want to see it?”

“See what?”

“The operation upstairs. Where we answer some of the calls. Lots of people work out of their homes, but I got a crew of six or seven working the lines now.”

Myron shrugged “Yeah, sure.”

Lucy took them up one level. Some sort of sickening stench engulfed the stairwell. When they reached the landing, Lucy opened a door. They stepped through and quickly closed it behind them.

“This is Fantasies Forever Lines,” Lucy said. “Not to mention Dick-a-Lick, Hootersline, Telefun, and a dozen others.”

Myron could not believe what he was seeing. His mouth dropped open. He had expected ugly women or fat women or old women. But he had not expected this.

They were men. All but one of the workers were male.

“Gay lines?” Myron asked.

Lucy shook her head, smiling. “Very few gay calls come in. Maybe one in a hundred.”

“But … these are men.”

Myron Bolitar, the essence of keen observation.

He heard a man in a gruff, truck-driver voice say, “Yeah, big man, slide it all the way in. That’s it. Oh, yeah, that feels good.”

Lucy smiled at the man. The man rolled his eyes and continued, “Don’t stop, Stallion. Ride me.”

Esperanza, Myron was glad to see, looked equally confused. “What’s going on, Lucy?” she asked.

“It’s the times,” Lucy said. “In this economy men are a cheaper source of labor. Most of the girls are on the streets. These are brothers, cousins, street kids.”

“But their voices—”

“They use a voice changer. Sharper Image sells them, but I get them cheaper in the Village. You can make little girls sound like Barry White, or vice versa. These guys can become a husky woman, a teenage virgin, a little girl—whatever the line calls for.”

Myron was stunned. “Do the customers know this?”

“Of course not.” She turned to Esperanza. “Dumb. But he is kinda cute.”

Myron Bolitar, Lesbian Fantasy Man.

The room looked like any telemarketing office. The phones were high-tech. Dozens of lines lit up, each marked for what role was to be played. Horny Housewife. Dominatrix. Cross-dressers. Busty Babes. Even Foot Fetish. Each employee also had another phone for Visa and MasterCard verification.

“The lines with a C next to them got to be kept clean,” Lucy explained. “We also have another hundred or so people working phones from their homes. Most of those are women.”

“Horny housewives?”

“Some of them. Most are just plain housewives. Anyway, that’s why I found the ad strange. A 900 line shouldn’t have a topless girl.”

They left the room and walked back down to the studio. Myron almost tripped over a wino who chose the moment Myron was stepping over him to stand up.

“Is ABC one of the companies upstairs?” Myron asked.

“Yeah.”

“And we know Gary Grady called you yesterday. Can you tell us why?”

“Who?”

“Gary Grady.”

Lucy shook her head. “Don’t know him.”

“How about Jerry?”

“Oh yeah, him.” She gave a small laugh. “I figured that wasn’t his real name. He was always real secretive.”

“So what did he want?”

She nodded as though something had just occurred to her. “I get it now.”

“Get what?”

“He was asking me about a photograph I’d taken a couple years back.”

“This one?” Myron asked, pointing to Kathy’s picture again.

“Yeah. One of his girls.”

Myron and Esperanza exchanged a glance. “You mean there were others?”

“Few. Half dozen, maybe more.”

Myron felt the rage consume again. “Underage girls?”

“How the fuck am I supposed to know?”

“You didn’t ask?” Myron asked.

“Do I look like a cop? Look, man, if you’re here to hassle me—”

“He’s not,” Esperanza said. “You can trust him.”

“The fuck I can, Poca. He comes busting in here with a fucking gun, scares the piss out of my model.”

“We need your help,” Esperanza said. “
I
need your help.”

“I don’t want to hurt you, Lucy,” Myron said. “I’m just interested in the girl in the picture.”

Lucy hesitated. “All right,” she said at last. “But back off.”

Myron gave a quick nod of agreement. “Jerry brought this girl to you?”

“Yeah, when I had my other studio a couple blocks away. Like I said, he brought in a few girls over the years. He wanted their photos for all kinds of stuff. Porno mags, smut film stills, that kind of thing. Most were a cut or two above the average hosebag who comes through the door. But he usually keeps the photos under wraps until they’re a little older. Legal age, I guess.”

The rage again. Myron’s hands tightened into fists. “So Jerry asked you about this picture yesterday?”

“Yeah.”

“What did he want to know?”

“If I sold any copies recently.”

“Have you?”

Pause. “Yeah. Couple months ago.”

“Who bought them?”

“You think I keep records?”

“A he or a she?”

“A he.”

“Do you remember what he looks like?”

She took out a cigarette, lit it, took a deep puff. “I’m not real good with faces.”

“Anything, Lucy,” Esperanza added. “Young, old, anything you can remember.”

Another puff. Then: “Old. Not ancient, but not a young guy. Might have been my father’s age. And he knew what he was doing.” She looked at Myron. “Not like you. Bernie Worley. Jesus.”

Myron pressed on. “What do you mean, he knew what he was doing?”

“The man paid me top dollar under one condition: I hand over every photo and negative in front of him right now. Smart. He wanted to make sure I didn’t have time to make any extra copies or an extra set of negatives.”

“How much did he pay you?”

“Sixty-five hundred altogether. In cash. Five grand for the photos and negatives. Plus another grand for Jerry’s phone number. Said he wanted to get in touch with the girl personally. Then he gave me another five hundred if I didn’t say anything to Jerry.”

In the background there was yet another bloodcurdling scream. It went ignored. “Would you know the man if you saw him again?” Myron asked.

“I don’t know,” she said. “I can’t picture him now, but if we met up face to face … who knows?” There was a pounding noise from the darkroom. “Mind if I let Hector out now?”

“We were just leaving,” Myron said. He handed her a card. “If you remember anything else—”

“Yeah, I’ll call.” She looked over to Esperanza. “Don’t be a stranger, Poca.”

Esperanza nodded but said nothing. They were quiet the entire way down. When they stepped into the hot air, surrounded by the night street, she said, “Didn’t mean to shock you in there.”

“Not my business,” he said. “I was a little surprised, that’s all.”

“Lucy is a lesbian. I experimented with it a little. Long time ago.”

“You don’t have to explain,” he said. But he was glad she told him. Myron had no secrets from Esperanza. He didn’t like thinking she had some from him.

They were about to head back to the car when Myron felt the muzzle of a gun against his ribs.

A voice said, “Stay cool, Myron.”

It was the man with the fedora hat from the garage. He reached into Myron’s jacket and took out the 38. A second man, this one with a Gene Shalit–like mustache, grabbed Esperanza and pressed his gun against her temple.

“If Myron moves,” Fedora said to the other man, “blow the bitch’s brains all over the sidewalk.”

The man nodded, half-smiling.

“Come on,” Fedora said, nudging Myron forward with the gun. “Let’s take a little walk.”

Jessica parked in front of the house Nancy Serat was renting for the semester. It was more a cottage really, located at the end of a dark street about a mile from the campus of Reston University. Even at night Jessica could see the house’s salmon-pink hue, which seemed to clash with the planet earth. The landscape looked like the trees had vomited—the front yard of
The Munsters
. A faded 118
ACRE STREET
was stenciled on the weather-beaten sign. A blue Honda Accord with a Reston University bumper sticker sat in the driveway.

Jessica headed down the broken remnants of what must have once been a cement path. She rang the bell and immediately heard a scurrying sound. Several seconds passed. No one approached the door. She tried again. No scurrying sound this time. No sound at all.

“Nancy?” she called out. “It’s Jessica Culver.”

She hit the bell a few more times, though in a house this small there was not much chance she hadn’t been heard. Unless Nancy was in the shower. A possibility. The lights, she could see through the window shades, were on. The car was in the driveway. Jessica had heard movement.

Nancy had to be home.

Jessica reached out for the knob. Under normal conditions some filter in her mind would probably have stopped her from simply trying to open the door of a virtual stranger (she had only met Nancy once). But these conditions were hardly normal. She took hold of the knob and turned.

Locked.

Now what?

She stood at the door five more minutes ringing the bell. Still nothing. Jessica circled the house, using a distant streetlight and the house’s glow-in-the-dark properties to guide her. She stumbled over a tricycle that looked like something recovered from an archaeological dig. Her feet got tangled in the high grass, the prickly ends tickling her calves. As she circled, Jessica peeked through the small openings in the window shades. She could make out rooms and spotted an occasional piece of furniture or wall hanging, but no people.

In the backyard she saw the shades were not pulled down in the kitchen. The lights were off too. It was pitch black here, the pink not getting the illumination of the streetlight to cast its glow. She peered through the kitchen window, cupping her hands around her face to cut off the reflection. A sliver of light from the front room slashed across the room. On the table sat a purse. And a set of keys.

Someone was home.

A sound behind her made her jump. Jessica spun, but it was too dark to make out what it was. Her heart beat wildly in her chest. Crickets singsonged unceasingly. She pounded on the door with both fists.

“Nancy! Nancy!”

She heard the panic in her voice and scolded herself for it.
Get a grip. You’re spooking yourself.

She stopped, took a few deep breaths, felt herself relax. She took another look through the window, pressing her face right up against the glass. She was watching the sliver of light when it happened.

Someone walked by.

Jessica jumped back. She hadn’t seen the person, hadn’t seen anything, except the sliver of light disappear for the briefest of seconds. She looked again Nothing. But someone had gone past and blocked off the light. She put her hand on the kitchen doorknob.

This time the door was not locked. The knob turned easily.

Don’t just go in, dodo! Call the cops!

And say what? I knocked on a door and no one answered? That I then started peeking through windows and saw someone moving around?

That doesn’t sound so bad
.

Sounds bad enough to me Besides, I’d have to find a phone. By the time I do that, whatever is going on may be over. I may have lost my one opportunity. …

Opportunity for what?

She pushed the voice away. Then she opened the door. She waited for the door to squeak madly, but it slid open with remarkable silence. She stepped into the kitchen and left the door open. Better for the quick getaway.

“Nancy?

“Kathy?”

She clasped her hand over her mouth. She hadn’t meant that. Kathy wasn’t here Jessica wished like hell she were, but that would be too easy. Kathy wasn’t here. And if she were, she certainly would not be afraid to open the door for her sister. Her baby sister. The sister with the bright smile. The sister whom she loved. …

The sister you let slip away. The sister you impatiently rushed off the line the night she vanished.

For several minutes Jessica just stayed in the kitchen. There were no sounds, except those maddening crickets. No running water. No shower. No scurrying. No footsteps. She opened the purse and extracted the wallet. Driver’s license and assorted credit cards—all in the name of Nancy Serat. She flipped to the back and stopped suddenly at a wallet-size photograph.

The
picture. The sorority sisters picture. The last picture of Kathy.

She dropped the wallet as though it were something scaly and alive. Enough, Jessica said to herself. She moved toward the light. One foot slid out, the other followed. In a matter of seconds Jessica was at the door. It was open a crack, allowing the light to cast its sliver now unimpeded. She pushed through, crouching like a cop with a gun, preparing for the worst.

And the worst was what she got.

Jessica stumbled back. “Jesus Christ—”

Nancy lay flat on her back, her hands at her sides. Her eyes stuck out like two golf balls, staring at Jessica. Her face was a deep purplish-blue, like a giant bruise. Her mouth was wide and twisted in pure agony. The tongue lolled out like a dead fish. Nancy Serat’s entire expression was still frozen in a look that begged and screamed with its every cell for oxygen. A thin line of still-wet saliva clung to her chin.

A cord of some kind—no, a wire—was wrapped
around Nancy’s neck, barely visible. Most of it had sliced clean through the skin and was embedded deep in the flesh. A circling lash of blood marked the spot where the wire had entered.

Jessica stared, lost. The world vanished for several moments, leaving behind only the horror. She forgot about the scurrying when she first rang the bell. She forgot the shadow that had cut off the sliver of light.

Jessica did not hear the approaching footsteps. Still staring at Nancy’s face, unable to tear her eyes away, she felt a sudden, sharp pain in her head. She saw white flashes. Her body folded at the waist and pitched forward. A tingling numbness followed.

Then nothing.