Palindrome (6 page)

“Courtney and I need to check some stuff out up in Maine.”

“What kind of stuff?”

Tammy's expression is a little expectant—­like she's curious to hear the answer too.

This is why I don't have many friends. The ­people I work with are generally idiosyncratic loners, and the ­people I
don'
t
work with I have nothing in common with.

Tammy is a manager at some skin-­care products company, and her husband, Greg, is a programmer. When they first asked me what I do for a living, I told them I was just doing a few freelance projects—­technically not a lie. It would be too much of a production to explain the whole thing; I work and live in a world they don't even know exists. I kept answering in vague half-­truths until Tammy and Greg got the idea and stopped asking about my professional life.

“A freelance insurance investigation.” I smile sadly. “Boring stuff. But really I'll call whenever I can, okay? And you can call me, too, whenever Mr. and Mrs. Feinsod say it's okay.”

Sadie crosses her arms and puffs out her chest. “You and Courtney weren't talking about insurance.”

I sigh and shrug at Tammy like
kids, what can you do?

“I'll give you two a minute,” Tammy says and disappears back into the apartment.

I take a knee and look Sadie directly in the eyes. “I'll tell you all about it when I get back, okay, sweetheart?”

“Are you working for that tall lady?”

I grimace. “Yes.”

“She was a bitch.”

I scratch my neck. “I didn't really like her either, to be honest. But don't use that word.”

“You think she's pretty, huh?”

Do I have it written in pen on my forehead?

“Yeah. She's pretty.” I sigh.

“Don't be stupid, Dad. You don't have to work for everyone that asks you.”

“I have to try on this one, sweetie. She's paying me a
lot
. We can go on a long vacation if I can figure this one out.”

Sadie eyes me dubiously. “You're bringing Courtney with you, right?”

I nod.

“You should do whatever he says. He's smarter than you.”

I kiss her on the cheek and hug her.

“I know,” I say. “Much smarter.”

A
HALF HOUR
later I meet Courtney down the street in Seward Park. I've got Orange's number cued up but try to get in the right state of mind before I dial. Every client deals with a slightly different Frank Lamb, depending on their needs. With Orange I err on the side of aggressive and no-­nonsense; show any weakness to Orange and he'll exploit it.

“Just call, it won't get any easier,” says Courtney.

“Respect my methods,” I say. “Unless you'd like to call yourself?”

He grimaces at the phone like it's some kind of bomb.

“That's what I thought,” I say. Take a few more deep breaths then hit call.

The phone rings only once.

“Midtown Fitness.”

The words are low and muddy. I can just tell the guy on the other end is four times my size.

“I wanna talk to Orange,” I say, trying to match his baritone and sprinkling in a little Brooklyn accent for flavor. Next to me on the park bench, Courtney rolls his eyes.

Orange goes through these charades like making you arrange an appointment through one of his cronies—­as if he doesn't have time to take calls himself. Best I can figure, he rarely leaves his dungeon. And he's running a brothel and gambling den, not a hotel; it's not like he's burdened with paperwork and managerial tasks.

Why the games? I'm guessing because Orange's whole operation is a lie, in the sense that he's not the kind of guy who should be a pimp. After combing around a bit, I found out he inherited the biz after his dad died in an ice fishing accident over a decade ago. Orange's natural curiosity, haughty eye for culture and propensity for sitting would have served him well as a film or food critic. But circumstance has thrust this hideous specimen into life as a crime lord, so he wastes away playing the part.

I suspect that in some tiny corner of his psyche he feels guilty about the girls. But what can he do? Can't
ever
show that weakness to his employees. Problem is, his insecurities don't make him less dangerous. Quite the opposite really. Never fuck with someone who feels like they have something to prove. I've heard stories of him beating his girls to the brink of death and of having one of his goons dismembered for doing a side job for a competitor. Probably the only reason Courtney was spared the same fate after insulting him by refusing payment was because Orange didn't want the reputation of hurting private contractors, whose ser­vices he employs occasionally to hunt down debtors.

A pregnant pause on the phone.

“Who is this?”

Gotta play his stupid goddamn game.

“Tell him it's Frankie. Lamb.”

A click as the phone is set down. I breathe on my hands to keep warm. Courtney is wearing a bright red duck-­hunting hat, a ratty grey scarf over a thick flannel shirt, and tight blue jeans that hug his tiny thighs, wrapping them up like blue taquitos.

Little kids are everywhere. Running around with a basketball, no hoop in sight; crawling up and down the freezing metal slide; hanging on the monkey bars, T-­shirts pulled up to reveal their tiny midriffs. Lots of giggling and screaming—­next time I'll choose a tougher-­sounding location to call a gangbanger from.

I snap to attention as the goon picks the phone back up.

“Orange wants to know if you're still working with the skinny-­ass guido.”

I glance up at Courtney, and we lock eyes. He can tell something's up.

“What's the difference?”

“Hold on.” The phone is set down again.

“What is it?” Courtney whispers, concerned.

I put my hand over the receiver. “Your lucky day. I think I'm gonna have to go there alone.”

He looks relieved.

The dude picks the phone back up. “Orange says he'll talk to you, but you gotta bring your guido friend in with you. Orange wants an apology from him. Come at six today. Bring a towel. We don't have them here.”

Then he hangs up.

“So?” Courtney asks eagerly. “I'm off the hook?”

I stare at the cold pavement and click my tongue.

“No. I misunderstood. You gotta come too. Sounds like Orange won't talk to me unless you come with and apologize first.”

Courtney's frown extends until the edges of his lips are nearly touching his neck. I think I see a vein popping in his forehead.

“We gotta talk to him, Courtney,” I say.

“He probably wants to lure me there so he can kill me.”

“If he was gonna kill you, he would have done it last time you were there. He's just prideful. Wants you to grovel.”

“Can't you do this over the phone?”

I hand him my cell. “You're welcome to try.”

He shakes his head emphatically and then, with an air of resignation, stands up from the bench. He has absolutely no hips or butt; his pants are held up only by a fading rawhide belt that clings desperately to his concave stomach, like it's terrified that if Courtney misses one more meal, it will tumble into the abyss.

“Will you come with?” I ask.

Courtney shakes his head slowly in disbelief, staring distantly at the kids on the jungle gym.

“Seems that if we're working together on this, I don't have a choice.”

“Good man,” I say, standing and clapping him on his boney back.

“Words won't be enough,” Courtney says, watching some kids squeal, coasting down a twisty metal slide. “We gotta bring him something if we want him to talk. A token of goodwill.”

“Best Buy gift certificate?”

“How long do we have?”

“We gotta get there at six. So three hours. He likes artsy-­fartsy stuff. Something that flatters his intelligence and worldliness would be good. Maybe a painting or something?”

Courtney scratches at his stubbly cheek.

“Cake. Everybody likes cake.”

I
T'S ALREADY GETTING
dark as I hit the Midtown Fitness buzzer. To our left, a waiter from the Polish diner next door is writing the dinner specials on a chalkboard. I think I catch him shooting us a disapproving look. He must see enough sleazy-­looking fellows buzzing in here to get the general idea.

Courtney pulls his scarf tight around his pencil-­thin neck as I wave to the camera above the door. Five long seconds later there's a buzz and the grated metal door clicks open. Courtney hesitates before stepping over the threshold.

“Come on,” I say, starting down the metal staircase carrying a white Styrofoam box containing Orange's present: a $40 slice of cake encased in a glass cube, with a phony certificate of authenticity from a guy Courtney knows in a Soho antique store. Case is sealed, so Orange won't be able to inspect it closely enough to tell it's fake; Courtney's friend assured us no collector would ever open the case and risk the specimen disintegrating. “We're already late. Orange hates tardiness.”

“He's so principled,” mutters Courtney as he comes in after me.

Midtown Fitness is accessible only via a poorly lit metal staircase—­slippery and wet from ­people tracking in snow—­that takes us twenty feet below street level. The staircase turns right into a dank corridor, peppered with heavy doors marked only with rusty combination locks. Behind each door is at least one drugged-­up sex slave. The last time we were here, bringing Orange the forgers, I witnessed a client sheepishly ask the guy at the gym desk for a “personal training session” and slip him some cash. In return he received a slip of paper with a door number and combination, plus a hearty enjoinder to enjoy his “workout.”

“I really could have died happy never coming back to this place,” sighs Courtney as we follow the weak light down the hallway. Orange keeps it dark. Maybe for mood lighting. Or maybe his clients don't want anyone to see their wretched faces.

“But you have to admire Orange's entrepreneurial spirit,” I chuckle.

“He's truly loathsome.”

On cue, a stifled moan echoes from behind one of the doors.

“Loathsome, sure. But honorable in certain ways. Paid us on delivery. More than you can say for most.”

Courtney snorts.

“Honorable,” he repeats. “Yeah, that's the first adjective that comes to mind when I think about doping up fifteen-­year-­old Korean girls too.”

“Get it all out of your system now,” I say.

The corridor terminates in a glass door: the entrance to the gym. Inside, it isn't lit much better than the hallway. The bald guy at the front desk on the other side of the glass isn't even bothering to keep up with the fitness charade today, just munching on a Snickers while he gazes blankly at a closed-­circuit TV. I knock on the door, and he looks up at us.

“Open,” he yawns.

Behind him is a dingy, whitewashed room housing a sorry collection of dumbbells, mats and benches. There's a single stationary bike and a dusty treadmill that I don't think is even plugged in. There's one guy working out: a crew-­cut employee grunting in rhythm with his bicep curls, dark sweat stains on the chest of his Michigan State sweatshirt. We tread over water-­stained carpeting to the reception desk.

“Welcome to Midtown Fitness,” the bald guy grunts in a thick Russian accent, seeming to resent the interruption.

“We're here to see Orange,” I say.

“Got an appointment?”

“Someone told us he'd see us at six.”

The steel-­jawed concierge swivels and shouts to Crew Cut. “Orange expecting anyone?”

My chest tenses for a moment. I've never come here asking for anything. Asking a favor is an entirely different animal.

“Uh-­huh,” Crew grunts between reps. “Orange said to send 'em into the
shvitz
.”

The front desk dude nods, satisfied, then slowly stands and comes around the desk. Towers over us.

“Weapons?” he asks, like he's bored.

“Yeah,” I say, handing him both my Magnum and ceramic knife. Courtney shakes his head no. The dude places my weapons on the desk, then gives us each a halfhearted frisk with hands the size of bear paws.

“What's in the box?” he asks, jutting his chin at the taped-­up Styrofoam box covered in a bunch of “fragile” stickers we slapped on for effect.

“We brought something for Orange.”

He raises an eyebrow.

“You can open if you want,” says Courtney calmly, “but I suspect your employer might not appreciate that.”

He stares first at the box, then at me, then at Courtney. You can practically see the rusty gears cranking inside his thick skull. Then he nods and slowly meanders back around the desk. Sits back down, exuding a sense of urgency similar to what you see in overworked DMV employees.

“Change in the locker room,” he sighs, and points to an ominous, filthy doorway on the far side of the room. “You got towels?”

Fuck. Forgot.

“No.”

He shakes his head at us, displeased.

“Nobody told you to bring them?” he says, implying the impossibility of such a clerical error ever occurring on his watch.

“No, someone did. Just slipped my mind.”

He sighs heavily and checks under the counter.

“We are not fucking Equinox,” he mutters, then surfaces with two ratty cloths, one brown, one that perhaps used to be white. “These are from the lost and found.” He flashes a sick grin that carries the import of these words—­nobody was exercising with these towels. “So I will need them back. After.”

I can hear Courtney breathing beside me. I don't need to look at his face to know he's trying hard to suppress his horror. I grit my teeth and snatch them from the attendant.

“No problem,” I say, then grab Courtney's shoulder and pull him toward the locker room.