“That was the name he gave you? Mr. Becket?”
“Yes. That was it.”
“Do you think he was Becket? The man with the cane?”
“I don’t know.” She says it with a lilt as if answering this is beyond her pay grade.
“You didn’t know anything about this party?”
“No.”
“Twenty-five hundred bucks seems like a lot of money,” I tell her.
“Listen. He told me it was a joke, on a friend. I had no idea,” she says.
“We’re going to need a written statement for the police.”
“The police?” she says. “I don’t want to get involved with the police.” She starts to get up from the bed.
I’ve said the P word-plague, police, it’s all the same thing to her.
“It’s the only way you can clear yourself,” I tell her. If I couch it in self-interest maybe she’ll sit down again. “Tell them what you know. That you had no idea what was going on. Otherwise they may think you’re involved.”
“I’m not talking to any cops,” she says. “I do that, I’ll lose my job.”
“OK. All right. But you can give us a written statement.”
She thinks about this. “I suppose. On condition that I don’t have to talk to the police.”
“Fine,” I tell her, as if a signed affidavit under penalty of perjury won’t have them knocking on her door.
“You said you were willing to pay.” Brutus standing at the end of the bed inserts himself as her business manager.
“Only if we have to,” I tell him. “It would be best if we didn’t. For our client as well as for Ben.”
She shoots me a startled look, surprised that I know her name.
“For legal reasons it would be better if no money changed hands on this.”
“No. That ain’t gonna work,” he says. “You’re gonna have to pay. Don’t tell them anything more and don’t sign anything. Not ’til we see the color of their money.”
“Who am I talking to, you or her?” I look up at him.
“Right now you’re talking to me,” he says.
“And what is it exactly that you can tell us that might be helpful?”
“I can tell you to jam it up your ass,” he says.
“Hey, hey. None of that,” says Herman.
“Tell your monkey man here to put a cork in it.” He looks at Herman and rolls the bow in his neck until it looks like a python crawled under his jacket.
“You know, we can go outside and monkey man here can get a hammer and fix that for ya,” says Herman. “What you need’s a good spinal adjustment and a colonic.”
“Who’s gonna do it? You?”
“Jeff, that’s enough!”
He looks at her. The muscles in his jaw relax just a hair so that he is no longer crushing his molars.
“I know what he wants. How much are you willing to pay?” she asks.
We’re back to this.
“What we talked about earlier.”
“Twelve-fifty?”
I nod.
She looks at him.
He gives her an expression as if to say, “it ain’t much” even though he was willing to sell her body for it ten minutes earlier. “Where’s the money?” he asks.
“At my bank,” I tell him. “The ATM.”
“See? They don’t even have the cash,” he tells her. “How were you gonna pay her for her services?” He turns this on me.
“I wasn’t.” He still doesn’t get it.
FOURTEEN
A pimp and his ride,” says Herman. He is glaring at the shiny new black sports car that Ben and her boyfriend slip into out in the parking lot as we get ready to leave the motel.
It grinds on Herman as we settle into the worn seats of my beat-up Wrangler to lead them to the office. I have called ahead. Brenda, who was working late, is waiting for us so she can type up the affidavit. It is best that we get this done now, without any delay. The longer the girl thinks about it, the greater the danger that Ben may come down with a case of second thoughts and disappear. That or Midas her manager may get greedy and up the price. We need to strike while we still have the scent of money to hold their interest.
“First the bank,” I tell Herman.
He is driving my car, leaving his Buick parked back by the club. We can pick it up later. Herman hasn’t had anything to drink. Besides, I’d rather not make it a parade to the office.
We loop around and head east on Narragansett, back toward the airport and I-5. Herman glances in the rearview mirror every few seconds to make sure they are following us.
“You think you can find this guy Becket?” he asks.
“I am hoping that maybe we won’t have to.”
“Told you,” says Herman.
I am starting to fall under the sway of his original notion, that if we give the police a strongly worded affidavit and then lead them quickly to the witness, that she may go to pieces in front of them, enough to convince them she is telling the truth. If that happens, the entire case may disappear. They will dump the charges on Ives and we can go back to afternoon naps in the office.
“What do you think a car like that runs?”
I look over and catch Herman checking out the sleek black luxury sports car in the mirror. There is a look of lust in his eye and it is not for the woman in the front seat.
“I don’t have a clue,” I tell him. “Never shopped for one. As you might have guessed, I’m not into cars.”
“I’d like to be,” says Herman. “That one, the series, the wheel package, leather interior, navigation. . think it comes in a convertible hardtop?”
“Beats me.”
“I think that one’s a convertible hardtop.” Herman convinces himself. “Fully tricked out, trip the meter, I’m guessing six figures. You’re talkin’ a hundred, maybe a hundred and ten thousand you get the little brass cup holders. We’re definitely in the wrong business.”
“You don’t have to convince me,” I tell him.
“I wonder if he pays any taxes.”
I don’t say anything.
“You know, that’s not a bad idea.”
“What?”
“You know he’s takin’ all the money from the girl, don’t you? Probably got a stable of ’em to boot. He can afford a car like that, she’s gotta be givin’ him beaucoup bucks.”
“And your point is?”
“Say we feed him to the IRS?” Herman looks over at me with a gleam in his eye. “No. No, listen,” he says. “They tell me you get ten percent of whatever the wolf man gets in back taxes and penalties. That’s probably more than you make in a year. More than I make in a decade. Besides, what’s he gonna do with a car like that, they ship him to Terminal Island. What I hear, they don’t let you drive there. He ain’t gonna need that car,” says Herman. “Pick it up for chump change. And besides, you be doin’ her a favor.”
“You know, Herman, that’s what I like about you the most.”
“What’s that?”
“You’ve got such a big heart, always looking out for orphans and defenseless women,” I tell him.
He laughs.
“Let’s not forget the bank.” If he blows past that stop there is going to be a lot of gnashing of teeth and noisy disappointment from the car behind us.
We work our way toward Harbor Drive, swing onto it and head toward downtown. As we approach the airport, we pick up speed. By now the rush hour is ebbing. We roll along in front of the airport doing forty, catching all the lights. Herman has them timed.
“Where’d they go?” He’s looking in the mirror.
“What?”
“They’re gone.”
I turn and look. “No, they’re not. They’re in the inside lane.” They are just behind us in the lane to our right, the hood of the dark sports car moving up on us, sitting in Herman’s blind spot, in the gap between the rearview and passenger-side mirrors. Herman keeps stealing glances into the glass but he still can’t see them. “What’re they doin’ out there? Why don’t they stay behind us?”
As he says it, the car pulls forward until it is even with us. Herman is gaining speed. I glance at our speedometer. He is doing fifty.