Hooked (13 page)

T
awny entered the room and set her tote in the closet. A plate of caviar and crackers sat on the coffee table in the sitting room. A bottle of champagne chilled in a silver wine cooler. She wished she knew this client, knew what he liked, but Benny couldn’t give her any background because Seymour had never been a client at Upper Eighties before. Benny guaranteed the man an exceptional evening with the promise that no finer courtesan existed in the city of New York.

No pressure there
. Raves like that could only lead to client disappointment. No one was that good, for any amount of money, and no matter what people thought, making a client happy wasn’t always about sex.
And how does Benny know how good I am anyway?

Charles called up to announce her appointment had arrived and that Benny was delivering the man personally. Walsh claimed Cooper stayed in the background, unwilling to put himself in a compromising position. So much for that. Must be someone special. Benny knocked and Tawny opened the door.

“Mark Seymour,” Benny said. “May I present Tawny.”

Seymour entered the room. A smile played on his lips when he saw Tawny. She barely heard Benny mention something about caviar and champagne before leaving with wishes for a pleasant evening. As soon as the door closed, Tawny’s composure slipped. She grappled for words. A symphony of drumbeats throbbed where her heart
was supposed to be, and she spoke in an almost inaudible voice. “What are you doing here?”

“I might ask you the same question,” the old man said with an air that defied surprise.

He hadn’t lost the Italian charisma that oozed from his pores like his favorite Amaretto.

Tawny knew the man had another side, but she’d seen only one. Always trim, he wore a light-colored jacket over a black silk T-shirt, but he’d lost weight and appeared more gaunt than the last time they met. His dark, leathery skin stretched tight over facial bones that could have been chiseled from marble by a master carver.

Calm and cool as always, he took her hand and moved her away from the door to the sofa and spoke quietly. “I thought you retired.”

She scanned the room once more and checked the ceiling fan, surreptitiously, she thought. But he knew what she was doing because he said, “No cameras or microphones. Cooper assured me. He might lie to others, but we have…an agreement, and I believe him. He has filmed
and
recorded. And he’s used it. So be very careful.”

“How do you know?”

“That little faggot in the office tried to sting one of my people. I don’t know what he could have been thinking, but he picked the wrong guy, made a bad calculation. Cooper said he didn’t know anything about it.”

Tawny wondered whether the sting could be tied to the dead girl or to one of the others who’d disappeared. But she wouldn’t find out anything from the man in the room with her. She moved closer to him, kissing him lightly on the lips. “Nice to see you, Mario.”

“The pleasure’s always mine where you’re concerned, Tawny.” He spun her around. “
Molto elegante
. Now,
cara
, tell me, what are you doing here? You retired.”

She wasn’t prepared and had to think fast. This time she told the truth, minus one important fact. “Yes, I did, until an acquaintance bartered me to the police in exchange for keeping her out of jail on a drug charge. I don’t know how, but they found one of the offshore accounts you helped set up. But only one,” she said with a sly grin. Truth so far. She had to decide how to handle this. She couldn’t tell him she was working for the cops or the feds. He’d forgive anything but that.

“I have to pay the back taxes, interest, and penalties, and I can’t do that without tapping into the other accounts.”

“Lots of ways they could have found it. Could have been through a search of yours truly. So, they know how you made the money.”

“They know, thanks to my friend, but they’re after bigger fish than call girls. Prostitution is way down on their list. Ah, but tax evasion. Another story. They could arrest me and put me in jail, but they’d never get their money. They’ve given me a few months to get the funds.”

“Doesn’t sound like the feds. Usually, they do both: get the money
and
put you in jail.” He brushed her hair back in an almost fatherly gesture. “Even the most hardnosed cop would soften when dealing with a woman like you. I understand completely.”

Tawny thought of Walsh. Nothing soft about threats and blackmail. “I guess they could still do both if I come up short.”

“Still, you should have come to me.”

“I planned to when I had enough money to pay the bill. Then Mr. Martell could arrange a
consulting fee
from the dummy company he set up. You know, my
legitimate
income. He’s a genius.”

“Hmm,” Mario said with a hint of disapproval.

Then she recalled Martell was related to Mario by marriage and figured a family problem tainted his previously high opinion of the accountant.

“I’d hoped you were out of the business, Tawny. You’ve been lucky, but luck runs out.”

You’re telling me
. “You’re a good friend, Mario. But I made a deal with Cooper. He’s always wanted me to work for him, and he’s paying me a bundle. I only have to do this long enough to get the money. Then, if they don’t make an example of me and put me in jail anyway, I’m gone, like I planned.”

He pulled the bottle of champagne from the ice bucket and examined the label. “Not the best, but adequate. I know you don’t drink, but this is a special occasion. Please.”

“How could I refuse?” She took the proffered flute. A mental smile surfaced when she thought back to Walsh and his supposition that all high-priced call girls drank only champagne. Surprisingly, she enjoyed the fizzy liquid. Dry, not sweet. Now that she wasn’t “in the life,” at least on her own, she might take to it.

To you, Walsh
, she thought as they clicked glasses and sipped. After topping a triangle of toasted bread with a dollop of caviar, she offered it to Mario.

“Mmm, Cooper’s taste in caviar is better than his taste in champagne. Good.” He washed down the appetizer and said, “I’ve told you what’s going on because I want you to be careful, Tawny. Don’t let Cooper’s Wall Street background fool you. He’s more than an oversexed pimp. He rationalizes he’s giving people what they want, but when his back is against the wall, he has a highly-tuned sense of self-preservation, and he’ll play dirty to save himself. I won’t go into the particulars. Do your job and go home.”

“Why didn’t you, you know―”

“Make a lesson out of him? Because my guy was in the wrong, and I don’t want it out in the open. But heed my warning.”

“Does it have anything to do with the girl fished out of the harbor?”

“I know nothing about that.” He kissed her forehead. “That’s all, Tawny. No more questions.”

She wanted to pump him for more information, but when Mario Russo said enough, he meant it. He wouldn’t incriminate himself or anyone working for him. There was too much going on here for some of it not to be connected. A dead prostitute, two women leaving Upper Eighties under suspicious circumstances—one of them missing—and now to find out that someone from Mario Russo’s family was involved. The old saying that if you lie down with dogs, you’ll get up with fleas came to mind. Tawny had managed to keep the fleas away for fifteen years, and ever since she decided to get out of the game, the fleas were attacking like, well, fleas. The idea she was doing the work for the feds and the NYPD started her itching.

Walsh must know about her relationship with Mario. He said as much the first day they met. Five Families. Isn’t that how he put it? But how? She never uttered a word about her trysts with Mario Russo. Not to anyone. And she was sure Mario never spoke of it either.

If Walsh knew, it was because the feds were watching Mario. Were they watching him now? If so, she would deny knowing anything about Mario’s presence at Upper Eighties. He was not part of her game, and she wouldn’t stab him in the back. He’d helped her when she needed help, and he’d help her again if she asked.

“So, Mario, it’s been awhile. How may I please you?”

“You can sit here with me and keep me company.” He took her hand and held it.

“Come on. We’ve known each other a long time.”

“Yes, a very long time, but it’s been months since you quit the business and gave up our visits. So thank you for not reacting when you saw me. It must have been a shock.”

It had been, but she managed to keep her reaction from showing. “I’ve seen you looking better. I figured you’d been ill.”

Russo lifted his champagne glass with a bony hand. He took a long drink and put it on the table. “I have cancer, Tawny. I look like the Grim Reaper has already claimed me, I know. My days are numbered, and the chemo has slowed me down. Can’t get it up any more, my dear. Companionship is all I can manage. I came tonight because Cooper offered me the best of the best and said I would be satisfied. I was curious.” His expression alternated between pleasure and sadness. “I should have known.”

“Mario, I’m so sorry.”

He’d been Tawny’s client for many years. They met in his secret hideaway in the Park Slope section of Brooklyn on the second and fourth Thursday of every month, where a sumptuous vegetarian meal awaited. On many of those nights they did nothing more than catch up on the week’s events, discussing politics, art, opera, and the theater. Mario never talked about his business, and Tawny never asked. She figured he was lonely. He never took her out in public because he didn’t want to stigmatize her with their association. Didn’t want her to have the reputation of being a “gangster’s moll,” in old-time vernacular.

Whatever Tawny read about him in the papers, the constant condemnation of his ruthless hold on corruption or claims that he permanently eliminated his competition, she had known only a gentle man and a gentleman.

“Isn’t there anything the doctors can do? Experimental surgery, medication?”

“I’m afraid not. It’s pancreatic cancer, one of the deadliest. To make matters worse, I’m surrounded by vultures waiting for my expiration date so they can take over the
family business. Ordinarily, a man grooms his sons to follow his footsteps. But I created a different family business to guarantee my sons, if they desired, had another career to inherit so they would never turn into me. Now I’m trying to arrange an easy transition so my protégé can ascend to the throne without a power struggle. But you know how men of my ilk are. It’s all about power. I’ve held on to it longer than most, but now it’s time to give it up, whether I want to or not.”

Tawny shifted in her seat, wishing she were somewhere else.

“I’m sorry, my dear. I’m talking about a man you’ve only heard about, one you don’t know and never will. It makes you uncomfortable.”

“Yes. Knowing you as I do, it’s hard to imagine that man, and it’s hard to hear such fatalistic words about your illness.”

“People, all people, allow others to see only certain parts of themselves. I was married to Victoria for thirty-five years before she died. In my home, she never saw the other side of me and couldn’t understand the vile things she read in the papers. Finally, she stopped reading them. In the beginning, I never cheated on her. But after five children she found religion. Sex was for procreation, not enjoyment.” He squeezed Tawny’s hand and smiled. “I was in my prime, virile and full of myself. If she knew I was getting it elsewhere, either she didn’t care or she graciously granted me the right. We never mentioned it, and I loved her till the day she died.”

Tawny refilled Mario’s glass and hers. She didn’t know why she decided to drink. Maybe because it seemed important to him. But now she felt a not altogether unpleasant buzz. “You don’t have to tell me this, you know.”

“You won’t believe this, but I have no one to talk to. I don’t go to church; I don’t confess. My confession would probably send the priest to another priest before I left the confessional. Though it’s a life I consciously chose, I regret some of the things I’ve done within the context of that life, but my time spent with women other than my wife is not one of them. And you, my dear, have been one of my joys. I’d say you’re like a daughter to me, but that would make me an incestuous beast, and I will not cop to that.”

Tawny laughed. She had not expected an evening like this and thought how the world really is small and how the people in it are somehow interconnected. That six degrees thing.

Tawny took the wine from his hand and led him to the big bed in the other room.

“One more time, Mario. For old time sake.”

“I told you, my dear. Nothing is happening. My failure would embarrass me.”

“Relax,” she said, placing a pillow under his head. “I promise, you won’t be embarrassed.”

A
fter Tawny freshened up, she gathered her things to leave the room at Upper Eighties. She’d stayed longer than the time she’d contracted. The evening had been an unexpected pleasure for her and a surprising success for Mario. They made a pretense of saying they’d see each other again, but Tawny sensed tonight would be the last time she would see Mario Russo, the last time she would spend an intimate evening with the private man very few people knew. She brushed off the melancholy, remembering the job she had to do and hating that she had to do it.

First, a trip to the office to pick up her payment. She took the stairs down to the first floor. Her heels echoed in the silence of the place. So much for being a ghost. Charles no doubt heard her approach.

The office door was closed with no one inside when she opened it. Why did that surprise her? People who worked here had lives, homes, other things to do. Either Benny was in his apartment or he’d left to go to his summer home in the Hamptons. He must have had great confidence her client would be satisfied. He should only know. She assumed Colin had left for the evening.

Mario had given Tawny enough information to make her cautious of Colin. He appeared to have a side business, apart from his work with Benny, and she wouldn’t consider pumping him for information. He hadn’t given her a second look when they
were introduced, unlike most gay men she knew—designers, interior decorators, and actors—artsy types who appreciated her esthetically and called her a work of art. Nice compliments, and it fed her ego to a point, but flattery was part of their persona. Colin was about as far from artsy as Joe Six-Pack.

The other gals were her best bet for information, except Darlene. She’d learned enough for one day. They’d become suspicious if she asked too many question at once. Her snooping earned her a name she hadn’t heard before, and she was happy about that. Whatever tidbit that eluded her earlier would come when she wasn’t trying to remember. Probably in the middle of the night.

She slipped off her shoes and tiptoed close enough to the front to see Charles ensconced at his desk, pencil in hand, engrossed in something. He didn’t see her. She remembered Benny saying he lived in the building. Doorman, building superintendent, and Jack-of-all-trades. Efficient and polite. He worked lunch hours for those afternoon trysts, took a couple hours off midafternoon, resumed his post at five, and stayed put until all the clients and girls left.

Good. Stay right where you are and keep busy
.

She crept back to the office and closed the door silently behind her. Ignoring the legitimate reason for being in the office—the bank of mailboxes in back of a long table, one with her initials—she headed for Colin’s desk. Nothing that looked like an appointment book sat on top. She tried the drawers. All locked.

She went to the door and listened―still quiet―and returned to boot up the computer. Password protected. Of course. Colin wouldn’t leave Upper Eighties records lying around for anyone to access. She tried the wall cabinets. Also locked. She wondered whether there were tape recordings and videos hidden inside.

She pulled out the key Benny had given her and opened her mailbox. Inside was a
thick self-sealed envelope. She pulled apart the flap to do a quick count. Thirty-five hundred dollars in cash. Not bad for a couple of hours work. An hour more than she contracted, but that was because of the client.

Time to play dumb. She tucked the envelope in her satchel, stepped into her shoes, and headed for the front door. Charles looked up.

“Ready to leave, Ms. Tawny?” he asked.

“Yes. How do things work here? Do I sign out?”

“Right here.” He slid the clipboard in front of her containing one sheet of paper with her name on it, dated today. Someone else had signed her in at five with a notation that her appointment began at seven. She signed herself out.

“Who signed me in?”

“Mr. Cooper. You stayed longer than Mr. Cooper said. Was there any problem?”

“No. The extra time’s on me. Old man. They take longer sometimes.”

Charles’s face reddened and he sputtered something she couldn’t make out.

Poor guy seemed unsuitable for his job. “By the way, one of the ladies mentioned a Cindi. I was wondering if she’s someone I know by that name. Cindi Davidson?”

“No, I believe Cindi’s last name was Dyson.” Now Charles became ill at ease. In fact, his complexion went from flushed to pale in a matter of seconds. The hand holding his pencil shook. “No, no, that’s not right. I’m getting her confused with someone else. Forget I said that. I…I don’t know Cindi’s last name. I only know the ladies by their first names.”

Was
? Cindi’s last name
was
? Could that be why Cindi hasn’t shown up? She’s a
was
? Tawny felt a wave of something foul hit her stomach. Poor Charles had screwed up royally. Twice. He tried to backtrack, but he knew what he’d done. She needed to push hard while he was flustered.

She leaned closer, hoping to unnerve him even more. “When is she scheduled next? If it’s the Cindi I know, I’d love to see her again.”

“I…I don’t know. I have nothing to do with the schedules. I’m just the doorman. Anyway, I doubt you’d know her. She’s from Kansas. Hasn’t been here long. Couldn’t be anyone you know.”

Screwed up again, Charles
. She reached out to him. “You look sick, Charles. Are you all right?”

“Who’s from Kansas?” Darlene swept down the hall, not a hair out of place, lipstick perfect. She looked coldly beautiful, except for the frown that caused a vertical crease between her perfectly-arched eyebrows.

“N-no one,” Charles said. “Ms. Tawny was just leaving.”

Darlene eyed Charles suspiciously. “You look terrible, Charles. Why don’t you knock off. It’s slow tonight. I can handle the rest of the evening. When the girls call down to usher out their clients, you won’t have to summon me. I’ll be right here.”

“Yes, that’s good,” Charles said. “I don’t feel well. Something I ate. I’ve felt out of sorts all day. Think I’ll go to my apartment and take something.”

“Good idea,” Darlene said.

Tawny reached into her satchel. “I carry antacids with me. Would you like one?”

“No, th-thanks. I have some in the apartment. Thanks for covering, Miss Darlene. Good night.”

He darted to the door so fast Tawny expected to see skid marks streak the marble floor. “Well, I’d better be going.”

Darlene blocked the way. “How was your evening?”

Digging deep, Tawny mustered her most confident attitude. “Quite pleasant. Mr. Cooper really knows how to treat his customers. Caviar, champagne. Very elegant.”

“Caviar and champagne, huh? Must have been someone important.”

Tawny studied her. Did Darlene know who the client was, or was she trying to find out? “You heard the name. Mark Seymour. You said you didn’t know him.”

“Sometimes clients use aliases for privacy. The name meant nothing to any of us. What was he like?”

Tawny picked up her bag. She didn’t want to get on the bad side of Darlene, even if her first inclination was to tell her the client was none of her business. After all, she did say not to talk about them. “Old. Had to work hard to get him hard.”

Darlene relaxed, even smiled. “I’ve had a few of those.”

“Well, nice to meet you, Darlene.”

“Same here. Oh, and Tawny, if you need information, ask Benny. Don’t pump Charles. He’s a sweet guy, but he’s on the dim side. I wouldn’t count on anything he says.”

“What makes you think I was pumping him for information? Why would I?”

“Just saying.” Her smile was fake and forced. “Good night, Tawny.”

Tawny smiled back. She didn’t have to force it either. She felt pretty good. She’d call Walsh in the morning with the name. Cindi Dyson, from Kansas. And she’d bet the thick wad of cash in her satchel the woman was dead.