Vegetarian burger? Wasn't that an oxymoron? And who'd said anything about dinner? A phone call was all he was promising-only, she was beaming like a lantern and he was not about to shut her off.
"Sounds great," he said.
There was a mob at the elevators. Valentine got behind two African-American couples wearing EVANDER HOLYFIELD-PEOPLE'S CHAMPION T-shirts who seemed to be part of a tour group. They chatted excitedly, their voices filled with the kind of electricity that only a heavyweight contest can produce. Unfolding Mabel's fax, his eyes quickly skimmed the page. She'd gone back to what she did best, parodying the classifieds. Attention, internet sex junkies. Tired of the same old porn? Young naked girls in voyeur dorms no longer turn you on? Pamela Lee starting to look like someone's old coat? Grandma Mabel has got just the solution. That's right, naked pictures of old ladies. Don't laugh-they turned your old man on! Send $5.00 to P.O. Box 1005, Palm Harbor, Florida, 34682.
"Mabel, Mabel, Mabel," he was saying into the phone a minute later, staring at himself in the mirror over the bed. "This has nothing to do with Gerry and me. You can't run this ad."
"Of course I can," she insisted.
"I'm not saying it isn't funny," he said. "It's very funny, and it will probably make a lot of people laugh."
"So what's your gripe?" she snapped irritably. When he didn't call back right away, she had gone outside to feed the birds and now answered the phone breathless and out of sorts. "Afraid your little boy is starting to usurp you?"
Valentine stared at the receiver clutched in his hand. Suddenly Roxanne's question about the nature of their relationship was taking on new meaning. "Are you angry at me?" he asked.
"Yes."
"A thousand apologies," he said from his heart.
"Thank you. Now, what's wrong with my little parody?"
"You're breaking the law, that's all."
She let out a gasp. "Are you going to explain," she said after a lengthy pause, "or is this your version of Chinese water torture?"
"You put your real P.O. box in the ad. The post office will have a problem with that. They'll probably fine you."
"I can live with that."
"If some idiot sends you a check, then it's mail fraud, which is a felony. You don't have a previous record, so they'd probably go easy on you. Six months' probation and a few hundred hours' community work down at the library. And you'll get your picture in the paper-or should I say your mug shot."
"You're serious about this," she said.
"Dead serious. You can commit a crime without having intent to commit a crime. You understand what I'm saying? The law doesn't cut you much slack in that regard. I tried to explain this to Gerry a few years ago when he was running a mail-order business out of his basement. He didn't listen."
"What was he selling?"
"Edible condoms. He called it A Taste of Paris. He shipped a few boxes to some state like Utah where everything is illegal and he got nailed. I had to bail him out of jail."
"Oh, Tony, I hope I can get this ad out of the paper."
Valentine sat up on the bed. "You already faxed it in?"
"This afternoon. They have a twenty-four-hour line."
"Call them and cancel. Better yet, drive down and cancel it. Mabel, you've got to kill this thing."
"All right, all right. I'll do it."
She sounded hurt and defeated. Leave it to Gerry to screw up the one thing that made her happy. How long had it taken him, two whole days? That had to be a record, even for his son.
"I've got some more bad news for you," Valentine said.
"What?"
"You need to get out of town for a couple of days."
"Why on earth…?"
"A guy in Vegas is threatening to kill one of my friends."
"How does he know I'm your friend?"
"He's got my address book."
"Oh, Tony…"
"I'm sorry, Mabel. Look, there's a Carnival Cruise sailing out of Tampa every day. Go to Mexico for a week. My treat."
"Sure," she said, "if I'm not in jail."
Valentine felt his neck burn.
"Good-bye, Tony."
Valentine stared at the dead receiver in his hand. Then he dialed his son's apartment in New York. The answering machine picked up. After the beep, he said, "Gerry, it's Pop. Listen up. Some thugs got ahold of my address book and may come looking for you. You'd better lay low for a while. I know this is a real pain in the ass, but these guys are serious. I hear Bermuda is nice this time of year. And Gerry, this is on me."
He started to hang up, then thought better of it and said, "You take care of yourself, kid."
The words sounded wooden. He and Gerry had been in so many wars over the years it was hard to be civil. He dropped the receiver into its cradle, wondering who was the bigger jerk, him or his son.
18
Wearing a floppy I LOVE LAS VEGAS hat and a pair of Terminator shades, Felix Underman crawled across the broiling desert in a rented Dodge Intrepid. Doing the speed limit was annoying, especially on a quiet Sunday afternoon, but he didn't want to risk getting pulled over.
Soon he crossed the county line. A garish billboard welcomed him to Armagosa Valley, soon-to-be-home of a U.S. Army MX missile site. Underman smiled at the ingenuity of the local boosters. This was Nye County, birthplace of bordello-style prostitution in Nevada, its founder the legendary Bugsy Siegel. The only business here was whoredom, and building an army base would insure huge profits for years to come.
A green exit sign shimmered in the distance. Seeing empty road in his mirror, Underman flicked on his indicator.
Soon he was on a two-lane service road. Signage was sparse. A man had to know where he was going out here. Turning down a rural road, he glanced in his mirror. If there was anything he had learned over the years, it was that you could never be too careful.
Five minutes later, the Pleasuredome appeared in front of him. The original building had been razed in 1984 during the Nye County brothel wars, and in its place stood a two-story Victorian with sloped roofs and minarets, the windows stained glass. As whorehouses went, it had an ounce of class. He pulled up, popped open his door, and stepped onto the baking macadam. Desert heat was different from city heat, and sweat poured down his face as he hiked the short distance to the entrance.
A sleepy-eyed bouncer held the door for him. The interior was dark and cool, and Underman sat on a red leather couch and looked for a hostess. The parlor had been designed with a Roaring '20s theme and had red carpet, red velvet drapes, and a white baby grand on a raised stage with a sparkling Tiffany chandelier hanging above it. The pianist, a chalky-complexioned woman in her fifties, sang Cole Porter. He didn't look important, so they weren't hurrying. He twiddled his thumbs, waiting.
The truth be known, Underman was against prostitution, especially the way it was practiced in Nevada. Legally, the whole issue was a disaster. There was not a general law specifically allowing prostitution, nor was there one prohibiting it. Since 1949, brothels had existed in nearly all of the state's seventeen counties. Only Clark County, which comprised all of Las Vegas, specifically prohibited it. Everywhere else the law was vague.
But that wasn't the only issue. There was the problem in how the women were treated. Their regimen was extreme: one week off, three weeks on. Being on meant on call twenty-four hours a day, just an intercom away from crawling out of bed and standing in a lineup before a potential customer. Conditions were harsh, alcohol and drug abuse rampant. The women came from all walks of life-rich, poor, middle class, and all ethnic backgrounds-but one thing was always the same. They lasted a year or two, then left damaged beyond repair, their self-esteem destroyed.
A cocktail waitress slipped through the curtains. She wore a tasteful ruffled dress, her face heavily painted.