I stopped at the edge of a flagstone terrace to let Rick catch up, and at the same time, I took in the scene.
An assortment of slender, very pretty young women lay in powder blue chaises, their feet pointing toward a circular swimming pool. I was reminded of an hors d’oeuvres platter. Chicks and dips.
“That’s her,” said Del Rio, jutting his chin toward a forty-something woman with a white-blond ponytail. The visor shading her eyes made her look like a dealer in Vegas.
The moment I fastened my eyes on Glenda Treat, she looked up and saw the two of us.
Ms. Treat had hardly aged since she’d been in the news as “the Don’s Madam” several years back. Arrested for pandering, she had threatened to open her little black book to the media: a long list of leading men, power brokers, and politicians. In the end, she had backed away from the tabloids and quietly done her five-year stretch. When she got out, the story goes, Ray Noccia had presented her with the keys to this place in appreciation for her stiff upper lip.
I tried to imagine Shelby with Ray Noccia and Glenda Treat, and it just didn’t compute. Shelby wasn’t hard and she wasn’t sleazy, not the Shelby I knew, anyway. The Shelby I knew had a funny line for every occasion and would give you the shirt off her back. So maybe that was the problem.
Glenda Treat uncurled gracefully from her lounge chair and came toward me and Rick, sizing us up — and I did the same to her. She obviously liked her cosmetic surgery: green eyes stretched tight, Hollywood thin, pillowy breasts. I wondered if she could actually swim in her pool, or if those artificial flotation devices kept her bobbing at the surface.
She smiled her famously winning smile, which had always seemed a little forlorn to me.
She thought we were johns, of course.
I introduced Rick and myself, then handed her my card.
“I’m not wearing my glasses,” she said.
I told her I was with Private. She knew the firm. Everybody does. She had even heard of me.
“What can I do for you gentlemen, then?” Glenda said. Her smile had lost some of its gleam. “Manicure? Seaweed wrap?”
“I need some information on Shelby Cushman.”
The remnants of her welcoming smile faded to a distant memory.
“I hear she’s dead,” said the madam. “Excuse me.”
She showed me her back and a long stretch of thigh as she bent at the waist to whisper into the ear of a twenty-something brunette at poolside. The brunette picked up a cell phone, then walked away to make the call.
Glenda returned to say, “I have to ask you to leave my property. It’s private as well.”
“Give me one minute, okay?” I said. “This is strictly personal for me. I’m working for Shelby’s husband. She was a friend of mine.”
“Mr. Morgan, Shelby was a fine masseuse. She could do four or five massages a day and make every one feel special. She started working here after her marriage. I recall that she said she was bored being home alone all day. About what happened to her? All I know is what I read in the LA Times. Of course, we all know what a rag that is.”
“Did anyone want to hurt Shelby?” I asked. “Anyone make any threats?”
“She was popular,” Glenda said. “Miss Congeniality. Everybody liked her, and she thought she was their friend.”
She addressed her last remark over my right shoulder. I turned to see three men coming through French doors out to the patio.
They were casually dressed, with bulges under their armpits. I recognized two of them from the night I met Ray Noccia in my driveway.
One of them, the guy in the lead, was wearing a black shirt, black pants, black jacket, no tie. He locked eyes with me, and I saw that he remembered me too.
“What are you doing here, Morgan? You have an appointment for a massage?”
I held up my palms to show that I wasn’t looking for trouble. But it didn’t matter. Trouble had found me.
“Do I look like I have to pay for a massage?” I said.
Chapter 45
THE MAN WEARING all black had mostly been a shadowy presence in my driveway, standing behind Ray Noccia when the don paid me a call. He was muscle, and I could see him better now: in his late thirties, handsome if you like his type, bulked up, and heavily armed.
Glenda smiled in his direction. “Do you know Francis Mosconi, Mr. Morgan? He’s in a related line of work,” she said.
“We’ve met,” I said. “Francis.” I nodded his way.
I also recognized the man directly behind Mosconi. He was Noccia’s driver, the fifty-something gentleman who’d maybe wisely advised me not to refuse a conversation with the boss. I placed him now. He was Joseph Ricci, the don’s cousin, I believed.
A third man followed Ricci and Mosconi out onto the patio. He was young, blond, tanned, and looked like a lifeguard in his yellow polo shirt and khakis.
Mosconi patted me down. A few feet away, Lifeguard was doing the same to Del Rio, who pushed his hands away and said, “Get your hands off of me. Right now.”
Lifeguard paid no attention, spun Rick around, and pushed him against the wall. I didn’t think that was a good idea.
The kid was younger and possibly more fit than Del Rio, but it didn’t matter. Rick hit him square in the nose with a jab and followed with a terrifying uppercut. The blond was out on his feet, and I felt like I ought to applaud.
But then Ricci lunged for Rick and hugged him from behind, pinning his arms to his sides while Mosconi put a nine-mil Beretta to Rick’s temple.
“Stop,” I called out. “We’re done.”
I raised my hands. Kept them high and in sight as Mosconi walked my way. Then he hit me hard with the Beretta. I guess we weren’t done.
I went down. Then we were done.
Chapter 46
A FEW SECONDS LATER, Mosconi stood over me, eclipsing the weak sun. I tasted sour bile. Meanwhile, I was thinking that no one knew where we were. Del Rio and I were outnumbered and outgunned. It was Dodge City at high noon, and the smart odds were with the black hats.
Mosconi spoke softly, even kindly. “That one’s for the way you talked to Mr. Noccia,” he said. “Now get the hell up, Morgan.”
I struggled to my feet, and as soon as I was upright, Mosconi hit me with a hard right to the chin. I staggered back and fell again, crushing a lounge chair, breaking a table. Spots blinked in front of my eyes.
“That’s for trespassing,” Mosconi said. “And calling me Francis.”
I felt cold metal as he screwed his gun down into my ear. The other two were working Rick over, cursing and screaming as they pounded him.
“You’ve got to learn some respect, Morgan. You and your friend.”
“I understand,” I said. “I do. I apologize. Help me up.”
Mosconi laughed at me. He reached his hand down, and I grabbed it and twisted his wrist until Mosconi shrieked and followed his pain to the ground.
The Beretta clattered to the flagstones. I grabbed it on the second bounce and jammed the muzzle into Mosconi’s temple. Fair is fair.
“Put your guns on the ground,” I shouted to Ricci and Lifeguard. “Guns on the ground and step away.”
Joe Ricci immediately put his gun on the ground. Then so did Lifeguard.
“Morgan,” Mosconi said with a sneer. “It’s over. You win this time.”
“It’s not over yet,” I said.