With her head poised at the man’s pelvis, Monica waited a teasing moment before moving in. The participants joined as promised-her lipstick around his redwood, his fingers in her hair-and commenced the dance. It was a slow, slippery rhythm at first, which built within seconds to a theatrical crescendo of bucking and flopping and twisting and grinding, all accompanied by a sound track of amazingly loud closed-mouth moaning (hers) and wild, spasmodic grunting (his). I had already seen it a couple of times…well, maybe more than a couple…so I didn’t find it that titillating anymore. But Harvey ’s blood pressure seemed to be rising as he watched the display.
“Is there,” he wanted to know, “a point to this?”
“It’s coming up.” When the image was right, I froze the pair in sticky postfellatio glow. “There.” I pointed to a tiny row of type at the bottom right-hand corner of the screen. “See this?”
He leaned in. “Barely.”
“It’s a series of numbers and letters that Felix thinks is some kind of filing tag or catalogue code. That’s what it looks like.”
“Implying there are more videos like this?”
“Of other men. It could be. The code has part of this man’s last name in it.”
“Meaning what?”
“I’m not sure. One thought is that this extortion gig is a cottage industry for Monica, and she does this to lots of clients. I really, really want to talk to her.”
“Why?”
“If it’s true, she’s putting Angel’s whole empire at risk. It’s great leverage for us. Monica has been in this game for a while. I think there is a lot we can learn from her.”
He blinked at the screen.
“I mean, in terms of Angel’s operation. Felix is trying to track back and get into Monica’s computer to see what he can learn. We might find a whole catalogue of these videos.”
“Have you had any luck finding her?”
“No. She doesn’t answer any phones. OrangeAir claims they don’t know where she is. She’s on leave is all they’ll say. Tristan could probably find her using his union connections, but we don’t seem to be speaking to each other at the moment. I’m still working on this one.”
“And Angel?”
“I’m headed that way now. We’re supposed to meet at four o’clock.”
He inspected my outfit-T-shirt, sweatpants, and running shoes. “Where are you meeting?”
“Apparently, I’ve wandered into some kind of endurance test. Party all night and work all day. We’re meeting at the LA Sports Club. She wants to work out.”
Chapter 27
I HAD NEVER BEEN IN THE LA SPORTS CLUB, the trendy workout facility that was part of the new Ritz-Carlton development. When I stepped off the elevator, I was confused. The club’s reception area, with its muted colors, marble floors, and hushed ambience, was like the lobby of an expensive hotel. I thought maybe I’d come in at the wrong entrance. But then I looked beyond the front desk and saw the glassed-in weight room in the background. Same as any other weight room-except for the plush midnight-blue carpet.
I went to the desk to check in, then through to the locker room. Judging solely on the basis of locker rooms Angel frequented, I would have to say she led a pretty upscale life. I stowed my gear and went out. Angel was nowhere to be found, and I had plenty of nervous energy to burn, so I started without her. I was finishing my last reps on the leg lift when I felt two strong hands land on my shoulders and commence a brisk massage.
“Darlin’, you have got some good tone going on there. I’m impressed. You’re nice and hard. But so tense.” Angel had arrived.
I shrugged out of her grasp and climbed off the machine. She handed me the towel that I’d hung on one of the spars. “What’s got you so tied up in knots? Do I make you nervous?”
“Tied up in knots is my normal state of being.” I used the towel to dry my face, found my bottle of water, and took a long swig.
She laughed. “If that’s true, doll, then you need to get yourself laid. Again.”
Angel was decked out in black tights and a hot-pink top that guaranteed maximum cleavage and made her look like a World Wrestling babe. She took my seat at the leg lift.
“Add ten more pounds for me, would you?”
I added the weight, and she started lifting, setting a rapid pace. I hated doing leg lifts, but she had a sturdy set of quads that rippled under her tights as she worked them. When she was finished, she asked for another ten pounds, which I added.
“Tell me,” she said, “exactly how this little arrangement between us would work. Did you bring me some more names? I liked that last batch you gave me.”
“Three sessions to start. You get one-third every time you pay me. I get a check, and you get a disk.”
“Paid how much?”
“Three thousand dollars a day.”
The chest press had been in use my first time through. I saw that it was free, moved to it, and set my weight at the usual level. I was halfway through my first set of reps when she pulled up next to me.
“I don’t know too many gals,” she said, “worth that kind of money. I am, of course, but you seem a little…inexperienced.”
“That’s chump change to you, Angel. You make that much in a few hours’ work, and we’re both experienced, just at different things.”
I finished my first set, and she motioned me off, stopping first to add more weight. She did an elaborate chest press with lots of squeezing that caused her cleavage to expand and contract accordingly.
“What if I don’t like your terms?”
“You can call up McKinsey and Company, and I’ll go out to LA. Start-ups are generally less risk-averse and more aggressive than going concerns.”
She finished her set, and I rotated in. I knew I should reduce the weight, but I went with what she had lifted, which was a mistake that I appreciated the second I started. I struggled mightily to get through three reps. I had to rest after the fifth. When she smiled broadly at me, I thought it was because I had failed to match her little strength test.
“What?”
“Start-ups? Risk-averse? I’m starting to get you now, doll. You’re scared. You don’t think you can do it.”
“Do what?” I started on the sixth press, but my arms shook badly. She moved in and spotted me, pushing on the machine’s arms to help me complete the motion.
“All this high-and-mighty bullshit about not wanting to turn tricks, you think men wouldn’t be attracted to you.”
I let go of the press. The weight dropped, the arms snapped back, and she barely got her hands out of the way in time. Oops.
“That’s what all this steely professionalism is about.” She walked around in front of me as if to take in the whole view. “It’s all over you. It’s in how you dress, how you do your hair.” She could have been referring to my dowdy running shorts and raggedy Bruce Springsteen T-shirt from a concert ten years ago. “The way you move. You don’t know how to use your body. You have no idea what it’s like to walk into a room and have every man in the place want to throw you down and have his way with you.”
“Sounds romantic.”
“Sex is never about romance, darlin’. Don’t you know that? It’s about power. It’s about one person getting over on another.” She shooed me off the seat and added yet another ten pounds. This time, when she pressed, it was all about showing off her strength and not her cleavage. She had to work it. The effort raised the muscles in her neck and throat and distorted her face into an angry grimace. “Make them your victim before they do it to you.” She dropped the weights, finishing the last press with a loud clang, a fitting exclamation point.
I stood to the side and watched her catch her breath. “I’m not looking to make any victims,” I said. “I’m looking to make some money and stay out of trouble.”