“Sure thing.”
“Also I’m looking for a young woman named Coco Lombardi. She’s a stripper here in New York but she might be from Boston originally. Celia Landis might be her alias or vice versa. And there’s some other names I’d like you to look up,” I added. “Josh Farth, forty-four, private investigator or security specialist; Alexander Lett, around forty, from down in DC. He’s a strong-arm so probably listed as security too. Then there’s a Marella Herzog. That name is almost definitely a.k.a. but it’s probably used down in DC for a wedding registration at high-end stores. I’d like to know who she’s marrying and what her backstory is.”
“Got it, got it, and got it,” Zephyra said; her voice sounded cheerier when she was working. “Anything else?”
“Yeah, yeah. Check out the social media sites for somebody named Twitcher.”
“Male or female?”
“Man.”
“Age?”
“It’s Twill.”
Silence, then: “Okay.”
“What’s wrong, Z?”
“I don’t think I want to talk about it.”
“Then let me do the talking,” I said in my most avuncular tone. “There was once a fat man named Bug Bateman who lived in a hole clutching a stick of dynamite in one hand and his dick in the other. A Spanish princess named Ximenez dragged him out of there, made him do push-ups and shop at Armani, and then, just when he was exactly what she wanted, she told him that she needed the freedom to see other guys. He found out that there are many women who want a guy like him.”
“He rubs my nose in it.”
“Any guy you know that you wouldn’t mind spending a few weeks with?”
“There’s this man that calls himself Petipor the Younger. A Turkish technology importer. I think his father is a Thracian prince.”
“After you finish with my searches go away with him.”
“And you’ll tell Bug?”
“I won’t need to.”
“Where do you want me to start with your work?”
“Do a cursory on Coco first and get that to me as soon as possible.”
“You got it, boss.”
19
“I’m leaving now, Mr. McGill,” Mardi said via intercom maybe five minutes after my talk with Zephyra. “Do you need anything else?”
“Tell Twill I’m askin’ about him if you see him and take your sister to some musical on the office account.”
“Thanks.”
“And one more thing,” I said.
“What’s that.”
“Try to find yourself a boyfriend.”
“Bye.”
I called the Chambre du Roi about midafternoon to make a reservation.
“Âllo?” a young woman who was not French answered.
“Leonid McGill,” I said. “I want a table for two at eight tonight.”
“I’m sorry, sir,” the woman replied, dropping all pretense at a French heritage. “We’re booked solid until the beginning of next week. If you want to make a reservation you have to call at least a week in—”
“Let me speak to Henry,” I said, cutting off her misplaced sense of hierarchy.
“Who?”
“In that French class you failed they called him Henri. But this is America and I want to talk to your boss.”
“Um,” she said and then she put me on hold.
“Âllo?” a man who was French said after maybe fifteen seconds.
“Hello, Henri, Leonid here.”
“Tonight?”
“Two at eight.”
“See you then,” he said.
I disconnected the call feeling the little triumph of defeating the snobby young woman. I had many ins in New York. Most of these I’d earned by doing people favors saving their lives, getting them out of legal jams, or shedding a little blood here and there — but in Henri’s case it was simply that I tipped him a hundred dollars every fourth time I ate at the Chambre du Roi.
I stayed at my desk trying to see if I could find out anything about Coco Lombardi. It would have given me a great deal of pleasure if I beat Zephyra to the finish line on that search. I guess, looking back on that afternoon, I was trying to feel superior after my office had been violated like that.
Gordo sent me a text saying that Chin Wa wanted a rematch. I spent a good while wondering what I could do to the fast, hard-hitting middleweight now that he knew that I knew how to count to seven. Not coming up with a satisfactory answer, I failed to respond to the text.
At 6:30 I was prepared to walk up to Marella’s neighborhood. My head was telling me that maybe I should cancel but my pulse had a whole other set of expectations. As a compromise I called for a limo to pick me up at 7:30 and then called a number that was answered by a switchboard operator uptown.
“Tivoli Rest Home,” a woman answered.
“Katrina McGill.”
“Hello, Mr. McGill,” the operator said. “This is Sister Monica.”
“Hi, Monica, how are you?”
“I’m taking a group to the Metropolitan Museum of Art tomorrow. I asked your wife to come. She said that she’d think about it but she hadn’t signed up by dinner.”
“I’ll talk to her,” I promised and Sister Monica put my call through.
“Hello?” she answered on the fifth ring. Katrina never picked up the receiver before the fourth ring. At least she retained something of her premenopause sense of self.
“Hey, babe.”
“Leonid. Is everything all right?”
“You’re up there and not home with us. That’s not okay.”
“You know I’m too weak to maintain a home. Maybe I should give you a divorce and you could go get a younger wife.”
Maybe, I thought.
“Sister Monica says that you haven’t signed up for the museum trip,” I said. “You love the Met.”
“Too much walking.”
“You could take a wheelchair.”
“I’m very tired, Leonid.”
“What if I hired a nurse to come take care of you at home?” I offered. “You know, like we did for Gordo.”
“You’re a sweet man,” my wife of too many years said, “but you don’t want me.”
“I want you to come home.”
“As your wife or an invalid?”
“Katrina, we have lived in that apartment, raised three beautiful kids, and eaten ten thousand gourmet dinners on that dining room table. There’s not one in ten can lay claim to that.”
“I’ll think about it,” she said.
While waiting for her to say more I tried to think of some compelling argument for her to return to our flawed life.
Finally I said, “I’ll come by tomorrow.”
“Good-bye, Leonid.”
It wasn’t till after we hung up that I remembered to ask if Twill had dropped by like he’d promised. I wanted to call back but decided that Katrina would have been suspicious and worried at the insistence and so I let that opportunity drop. Twill was in trouble, I was sure of that, but he was a capable young man so would do what it took to survive — I hoped.
“Excuse me, mister,” a voice laced with Spanish song said.
It was the brown young man that Westley called Quintez. He was my height and so I liked him. Though soft-spoken he still looked me in the eye.
“Yes?”
“A lady at the door to see you, mister.”
“A lady?”
He nodded.
“A young lady?” I asked.
He hunched his shoulders. Young for him and for me might have been apples and pork chops.
“Send her on down.”
Quintez went away and I took a deep breath. It felt like I’d been on a twenty-mile forced march with eighty pounds strapped to my back.