The Granite Moth (23 page)

On my last night undercover, the Maritime Sapphire had slid into view like a ghost ship. I swear I could hear the bones of former captives rattling as the vessel docked and a dozen or so crew members worked to secure the chains. It was sleeting, but I was chilled for reasons entirely unrelated to the weather. When I had called the lieutenant about my lead on the Magrellis' cocaine shipment, I had expected to be brought in immediately. After all, I knew the ship name and port name. They could take it from there. The S.W.A.T. team would be fully outfitted—helmets, gas masks, bulletproof vests—and prepared for any scenario. But the lieutenant wanted me on site in case I was wrong.

What he really meant was that he wanted me on site in case I wasn't done, yet. In case I had to return to my filthy excuse
for an apartment in the Bronx where I hadn't talked to anyone who actually cared about me in nearly two years. Some days, I didn't think that there was a “me” left anyway, so what did it matter? But standing on the cold, dark platform in nothing but some tight jeans and a fake leather jacket, I had been mad enough to care. My status as disposable to the NYPD had been made abundantly clear.

Frank Magrelli and his associate de Luca were nearby, but tucked in their luxury cars, a different one for every occasion. Salvatore was prowling, making sure his crate made it off first and into the waiting van. In the bad weather, the crew seemed to be having some problems stabilizing the ship, and the process was taking longer than usual. At least that's what Zanna told me. I'd never actually been present for an event this big before, and the machine guns were making me nervous. I recognized a few of Salvatore's enforcers, but not all of them. A small mistake, and I could end up an “unavoidable casualty.” Not the dream obit I had in mind.

Zanna had managed to shake off her cocaine fit, and Nino and I had unchained her from the radiator. When she had woken up on the couch, she didn't remember telling her brother and me about Port Jefferson. And she didn't ask about the burns on her wrists and hands. By the way she was dragging on her cigarette, she wasn't feeling 100%. Her job was to discourage any prostitutes from making their way down to the docks until we were ready to leave. The ladies arrived early to stake their claims. There were a few favorites, men who were a little bit kinder than the rest or at least more generous. Most of the men were too tired by 5
A.M.
to do much damage, but a few liked to hit as much as they liked to fuck. Those were left for the new girls, the ones who didn't know to arrive earlier for a little flirting, a little heckling. Or if they knew, they weren't allowed into the circle, yet.

My nickname might as well have been Tagalong since that's what I'd been doing since the first day I'd met Zanna. Usually she just wanted company, but tonight she'd slipped on her heaviest rings, and I knew she wanted an audience. If she'd directed her talents to Ultimate Fighting, she would have been a star by then. Or dead.

The first two women to arrive had a good hundred pounds on us, but this seemed to make Zanna happy. I did what I could to intervene for them, offering them twenty bucks apiece if they'd come back later.

“Such a pussy,” Zanna had said, laughing and snatching the bills from my hand. The women weren't taking my bait anyway, and I didn't have any more.

“Oooh, this one's got a mouth on her, huh?” one of the women said to her friend. “Such a pretty mouth, too. She can suck my dick any time.”

I should have been thinking about how to deescalate the situation, but instead I was thinking about buy and busts. Most undercover cops buy some weed, arrest the seller, then go home for beers and baseball. It's not the life of Riley and the suicide rates are high, but it bested being left to hang by your precinct. As far as I could tell, I wasn't going to get out of this night with anything less than a beating. I eyed the girls, picking the one with the blue lipstick as my target. She must have agreed with my choice because before Zanna had finished cursing out her friend, she'd dived into my gut and thrown me onto the ground.

I could feel gravel cutting into my jeans, and I thrust my hips up to get her off of me. She'd latched on like a boa constrictor, and her legs were stronger than seemed possible. I bucked back and forth, trying to throw her off to no avail. When her friend screamed, she was distracted, and I managed to slide out from underneath her. I jumped to my feet, kicking wildly
at her legs, trying not to hurt her much while still appearing to fight. I was ready to defend myself as soon as she got up, but the sight of the other woman made me lose my breath. There was a gaping hole in her right cheek, and Zanna was wiping flesh off one of her rings.

“You want more, bitch,” Zanna yelled, but her arm was caught mid-swing. Salvatore could have sent one of his minions, but this live wire was about to be his sister-in-law and he was a hands-on kind of guy. He sliced her cheek open before I even saw the knife.

If the Texan objected to dropping me off at a drag club, he didn't make a show of it. Instead he wished me well and told me to stay in touch. Earl stood in front of the door as I approached, and I suddenly became self-conscious of my pilled gray dress. The twenty-something snickering in front of me didn't help, and I was pretty sure I couldn't pay her to wear my white socks and black penny loafers with her 7 For All Mankind jeans.

“I.D.,” Earl said without giving away his opinion on my ensemble. I handed him my Kate Manning Connecticut driver's license along with one of my rare, real business cards to which he raised a skeptical eyebrow and stared intently into my face. “For real?”

“For real,” I said.

“Ms. Burstyn said you were good, but you're a piece of work.” I took that as a compliment. As he opened the door for me, I paused to ask him if he'd seen anybody snooping around, taking photos in the last month or so. I doubted that Earl ever laughed, but his lips quirked a little. In answer, he gestured across the street where I turned in time to see a young man and
woman pointing their phones toward me. I covered my face celebrity-style, but recovered quickly. They weren't interested in me, but in the flashing neon signs and flamingo guardians of the place. It was a sight, especially so far-removed from the brashness of Times Square. This was a tree-lined, high-end block. There was no doubt in my mind that Big Mamma had paid off some neighbors—if not some city officials—to keep this place rocking late into the night. Sometimes the party didn't even get started until midnight. Thankfully, it was earlier than that when I moseyed over to the bar, looking for Big Mamma and Dolly.

They were easy to spot near the garnishes, having a heated tête-à-tête. I couldn't hear what they were saying over the Pointer Sisters blasting from the speakers, but I doubted it was whether manzanilla or picholine olives went best with martinis. Big Mamma was poking a pink drink umbrella right into Dolly's chest. I'd never seen her so much as scowl at him, and I was alarmed. When I started toward them, my friend caught my eye and shook his head. I dropped onto the nearest barstool and didn't take my eyes off them, not even when the bartender brought me a daiquiri “courtesy of Earl, sugar.” Rum-heavy and blue-tinged, it wasn't my taste, but the gesture was nice. Professional solidarity or something.

Dolly took the paper umbrella from his boss and slipped it behind his ear. He wasn't working tonight, that much was clear from his jeans and T-shirt, but he looked more sure of himself than he had that morning. His crew cut didn't do anything to hide the burn, but it was dark enough at The Pink Parrot for customers not to notice. They eyed him as they took their seats and eyed him as they left later. I eyed him as he walked toward me and claimed the barstool next to mine.

“What'd you do to deserve an Earl special?” he asked.

“I think I surprised him.”

Dolly signaled to the bartender, who brought over a concoction that couldn't be called The Grover or The Cookie Monster. “I prefer my drinks without food dye.”

“I was kind of betting on blueberries.”

“Optimistic, but maybe you should take a break from gambling.”

I pushed my drink away from me and pulled out the silver invitation, flattening it onto the granite bar. In other clubs, I would have been concerned about the paper getting sticky, but The Pink Parrot was don't-let-the-name-fool-you classy. Ms. Burstyn wouldn't have it any other way. Speaking of the boss lady, she was heading toward us, and I straightened up, determined not to let her intimidate me anymore. If she was bullying my friend, then she was messing with the wrong queen.

“Down girl,” she called when she was near enough for us to hear. “I'll let Darío fill you in on his genius plans.”

“She knows, Mamma. I told her this morning. This city's trying to kill me.”

“You don't think you're like to be killed elsewhere? Miss Stone, I expect more sense from you.”

That was news to me, but I picked up the invitation and handed it to her. “Hard to argue when the savages send calling cards.”

There wasn't another empty seat in the vicinity, so Big Mamma squeezed herself between Dolly and me to let some customers get by. She smelled like gardenias despite having been at the club for at least twelve hours. “Never let them see you sweat” was her enviable motto. I thought she might be caving to Dolly's desire to head back to Florida, but when she spoke she started with Taylor Soto, the forgotten float victim. “Now, how in God's green earth did they know Taylor was being considered for a promotion?”

The record stopped, and for a moment, I thought the quiet was in my head, a reaction to the news that the busboy-turned-bartender was about to become a performer, maybe even a star. But no, the music really had stopped to let an emcee take the stage to introduce the evening's first floor show. Three men in matching long wigs waltzed out, trailing sequined boas behind them. Their hips moved from left to right in an exact rhythm. Olympic synchronized swimming teams had nothing on their precision. And they were mesmerizing. When they started their lip-synched routine to “I'm So Excited,” the crowd hooted in delight. Big Mamma gestured to the one in the middle. “He got Taylor's spot.”

I took a closer look at the performer, identifying him as Herman White despite the makeup. “But he was already a performer.”

“Yeah, the other young man in the running got the hell out of Dodge after the explosion. Didn't even show up for his last paycheck. Too scared to even walk through the front door, poor love.”

“So you never got an invitation like that one? With Taylor Soto included?”

“No. He wasn't in the lead, but he wanted it so bad. I don't know how anyone outside of this place could have known that I was even considering him.”

“He could have been bragging about his promotion.”

Big Mamma grunted at my theory, and I took that to mean “Maybe.” I was ready to grunt, too, in frustration for leaving this victim out of my calculations. It seemed possible that he wasn't collateral damage after all.

“Everyone here has a pretty large social media following, including the waitstaff. Maybe the Zeus group found out that way? They keep tabs on all the LGBT clubs in the city. And beyond for that matter.”

I thought about my photos of the spreadsheets, but decided not to show them. If I had been creeped out by the lists, how would the spreadsheets make them feel?

Big Mamma grunted again, then elaborated. “How ‘bout we nail these bastards to the wall, convince Miss Dolly that chicks and dicks alike dig scars, and call it a day.” She stepped forward to shout at the trio onstage. “Sing it, honeys!” They turned in perfect unison to beam at their patron saint. They blew kisses in my direction, too, seemingly less impressed by my disguise than Earl. It takes one to know one, I guess.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

A
ll the other benches on the street were illuminated by streetlights, but I sat in semidarkness, under the one burned-out bulb. It would flicker an orange glow occasionally, and a few persistent bugs would try to kill themselves in the warmth. They didn't succeed. It was late, and I should have gone home. Instead I found myself staring into the windows of the unofficial gym of my former precinct. It was going on midnight, so there weren't that many cops inside. Those not on patrol were home with their families, watching
The Late Show
or snoring their beers off.

I may have passed for homeless. I'd pulled on a clean sweater, but my dress certainly wasn't smelling any better than it did when I put it on that afternoon. And with my sling, I couldn't even pretend that I was spontaneously interested in a month-long trial membership: “Join Now! A New You Awaits!” Sometimes I felt like an anomaly, reinventing myself every morning and sometimes again in the afternoon. Then again, weren't we all looking for that next reincarnation? The one that would once and for all make us glossy magazine happy.