I turned around and saw Susannah peeking out from the cab window.
I closed my eyes and yelled for Doug; he answered immediately. I quickly laid it out for him: “You're going to wake up in downtown Philadelphia. Walk over to the brunette sitting inside the cab. Her name is Susannah. She's been through a lot. Comfort her until further notice."
You got it, dude, Doug said. I was impressed. It was a lot for him to absorb.
We swapped, and I found myself back inside the Brain Hotel lobby. I walked over to Paul. “Start talking, tough guy."
Paul glared at me. “Don't you do that again!” He rubbed his eyes. “Man, that hurts like a mother!"
“We haven't got all day, Paul."
“I know, I know. Look-I knew that woman. She's somebody important from Vegas. She's tight with The Man."
Again with this “Man.” “Who is she?"
“I can't name names, but I know she's a player. That's the only reason her boyfriend walked away with his heart still in his chest."
There's beautiful tremor in the brain that comes with complete, stark understanding. Like the first time you grasp algebra, or perhaps learn the theory behind a musical scale. I had the pieces floating around in my mind, but it took until this moment for them to congeal into something solid.
“What's her name?” I asked, even though I already knew the answer.
“Her name is Leah Farrell."
Leah. And Ray. Ray Loogan.
“All right Paul, I'm going to be straight with you. A while ago I mentioned that I was involved in a side project-a murder investigation. I didn't bring it up much because I didn't want it distracting you."
“You'd better start talking, chief,” Paul said.
“Okay, okay.” How to put this? “You know the face we're wearing?"
“The face of the murder victim, right? You told me that. But how does he know Leah Farrell?"
I laid it all out for Paul exactly as Brad Larsen had, including the bits and pieces of evidence I'd glommed for the past eight months. “More importantly, if Leah and Ray know our client, she must be tied to The Association as well."
“Or this ‘Roger Adams’ guy."
“Good point.” I paused to plan our next move. “Look-let me take it from here. I've got a lot of strange shit to sort out."
“Be my guest,” Paul said. “I'm only in this for the babysitting."
I resumed control of my body to find my tongue in Susannah Winston's mouth. Quickly, I broke the embrace. Her eyes were still closed.
“Godsorry,” I stammered.
Susannah's eyes fluttered open, dreamily. “Why are you sorry?"
“I'm not… I'm not being professional,” I said. Damn that Doug. I'd told him to walk over to the brunette, not deep-throat the brunette. I made a mental note to chew him out later.
She started to fix my shirt collar, but I gently nudged her hands away. “Ms. Winston…” That's it. Keep it professional.
“Susannah,” she reminded me. “It's Susannah, Paul. Man, you save my life, and then you call me by my last name?"
“Sorry. Susannah. My mind is in a different place.” Damn. I didn't sound one bit like Paul. That sounded like me. No-frills, basic, just-the-facts me. I could tell that she could tell, based on the expression on her face.
Time for a subject change. “Never mind. We should get out of here."
The cops showed up. They noticed the cabbie with the missing head. But they didn't notice Susannah and me, walking arm-in-arm, down Market Street, as if strolling the shops. Susannah had thought to grab the shopping bags out of the cab-a sure sign of a criminally devious mind. There was more to her story than a chance encounter with an ex-hit man lover.
This was going to be tricky.
Seventeen
Christmas Mistress
Paul agreed to conduct the meeting so that I would be free to observe and take notes inside the Brain Hotel lobby. He chose a bar not too far from Gard's Center City office (and as it turned out, our Spruce Street apartment). McGlinchey's seemed to be the kind of place where patrons minded their own business. And from the looks of the dust and funk on the walls, everybody had been left alone since the last centennial.
Paul took a green vinyl booth on the left side, which gave him the perfect vantage point to catch Gard when he came in. He ordered a draft of Schafer and tumbler of tonic water and ice to diffuse the beer, which came to a grand total of 85 cents. I liked the place already. I had to return here when I was in control of my body again.
Richard seemed completely freaked out. I was sure he'd walked by this place a million times and never gave it a second look. Now that he did, he was sorry. He slid into Paul's booth and ordered a gin gimlet from a waitress who wore a tube top and didn't appear to shave her armpits. Gard shuddered.
“I don't have much time,” he said. “What's going on? Where's Susannah?"
“Over at Nan Duskin, shopping,” Paul replied. “I made it clear to the owner that Ms. Winston was not to leave until she had spent an appropriate amount of money. I needed to speak with you alone. We had an incident this morning."
At this point, the waitress slapped Richard's gimlet on the table and asked him for ninety-five cents. Some of the drink dribbled over the sides of the glass, and pooled on the table. Richard put the five back in his wallet, and started fishing for a single. After an uncomfortable length of time, he gave up and forked over the five. “Here. Keep the rest."
Then, to Pauclass="underline" “What kind of incident?"
“Ms. Winston's ex-boyfriend took a few shots at us while we were in a cab. Our driver got his brains blown out. On the bright side, we didn't have to pay the fare."
Poor Richard went white. “My God. He is real."
“Real and connected to an unsavory crowd. Turns out, Ms. Winston was not exaggerating-'Roger’ does indeed work for a criminal. But his name is not Roger, it's Ray-Ray Loogan, and the criminal operates out of Nevada. I'm familiar with them, having worked in the Las Vegas area for some time."
“My God,” Richard repeated, then proceeded to drain half his gimlet.
“That's not all. He was with an associate of this criminal-a woman named Leah Farrell. Which means if she's with Ray, chances are this criminal from Las Vegas is very interested in your Susannah."
“Can't I ever pick ‘em without complications? If they don't have bruiser ex-husbands, they're tied to the mob. Jesus H. Christ-I'm too old for this bullshit."
Paul said, “Maybe you should consider fidelity."
“What?"
“Nothing. But I need to know more before I can bail your pinstriped ass out of this."
Richard considered this for a moment. Even from my vantage point in the Brain Hotel lobby, I could practically see his wheels spinning. Can I wrangle out of this now and ignore her, or will she come after me? Is paying for more protection worth a thrice-a-week screw? Should I have her killed?
“I'll tell you everything I know."
“Great. Another gimlet, Mr. Gard?"
Predictably, Richard had met her in a bar: the Crab Club, on 2nd Street in Old City, the newly-minted historical section of the city. The Federal Government had poured a ton of money and concrete into the area-formerly a slum-to be able to host President Ford for the Bicentennial in the actual historical environs without having to chase away winos and junkies every two minutes.
They met December 23, 1975. Richard had been at his firm's office party, which spilled over into the bar at Harrigan's Saloon, near Market Street, then the Crab Club. He was intoxicated, but by no means devoid of his lawyerly charms. Susannah had introduced herself when he bumped into her to order another French martini. Richard soon abandoned his buddies, called his wife in Lower Merion to tell her he was taking a room in town, and took Susannah to “drop her off at her apartment.” As it turned out, there was no need for Richard to rent a room. Upon sobering up the next morning, Richard found himself in a tricky Yuletide situation. As fate would have it, Susannah Winston was a far cry from the acne-scarred, flabby-thighed bimbo from the steno pool he usually landed. No, she was an amazingly young, amazingly beautiful woman who was alone for holidays, orphaned, and in dire need of companionship. She also gave the most “mind-numbing” blow job Richard had ever received.