Butterfly (74 page)

front page: MACKAY’S NAME LINKED TO BEVERLY HILLS BROTHEL.

“Jesus Christ!” Danny muttered when he saw the morning paper. He had a hangover

from his victory party the night before and was trying to nurse himself out of it with

tomato juice and Tabasco. He hadn’t slept well, not after the call he’d received shortly after

2:00 A.M. from the newspaper.

The
Times
people had called to inform him of information they had received from the

police, information they were going to print. Considering who he was, they had said, they

thought it only fair to warn him.

And there it was.

Danny threw the paper down and looked at Bonner. In the outer room he could hear

the phones ringing and a steady knocking at the door. In his private bedroom Danny had

turned on his TV set. And now he saw his face on the screen—a publicity photo from his

own files. A voice-over was saying, “…raided shortly after midnight. The police, respond-

ing to an anonymous tip, searched the rooms above the clothing store and found what

they describe as premises set up for the purpose of illicit sexual activity. Fanelli, a posh

men’s store on Rodeo Drive, it has just been learned, is owned by Royal Farms, which in

turn is owned directly by Danny Mackay, presidential hopeful. So far, no direct connec-

tion has been made between Reverend Mackay and the operation upstairs, but the police

are examining certain evidence that was found in what appears to be the office of that ille-

gal operation.”

While his staff in the outer room took care of reporters and phone calls Danny just

stood in his pajamas and silk dressing gown, staring in disbelief.

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Kathryn Harvey

His press secretary had sat up all night writing a statement to the effect that the

Reverend denied any knowledge of the establishment over the men’s shop, and that as

Fanelli was such a small part of his many holdings, Danny Mackay had never once, in his

years of owning Fanelli, set foot inside the store.

“Damn it, Bon,” he said as he sat down to a breakfast of chicken-fried steak and hash

browns. “How could something like that happen? I thought you checked the place out.”

“I did, but that was eleven years ago! I inspected the place myself. It was just an ordi-

nary men’s clothing store. And upstairs there were offices rented out to various legitimate

enterprises.”

Danny kicked the newspaper that lay on the floor. “Offices! Did you read what they

found up there? Whips and chains, rubbers, sex devices! Where in hell is Duane?”

“He’s still down at police headquarters, Danny.” They were referring to Duane

Chadwick, Danny’s attorney.

Danny picked up his Bloody Mary and tossed it down. Outside, in the hallway

beyond his doors, bodyguards were keeping reporters and curiosity seekers away. His two

phone lines were being kept busy by his secretaries, who were explaining the mistake to

the necessary parties—his senator father-in-law and various powerful political support-

ers—while the Century Plaza was preparing a room from which Danny could televise a

public denial of the preposterous allegations.

“Don’t worry,” Bonner said a little nervously, trying to calm his boss. “Ain’t no one in

this world gonna believe you knew about that whorehouse. Look, it’s happened before,

right? People suddenly finding themselves responsible for something they knew nothing

about. Shoot, like as not, it was some moron’s idea of making a fast buck. The police find

the manager of the store, he spills his guts out and you’re off the hook.”

“They’d better find him, and fast.”

Danny glanced up to see Angelica standing in the doorway. She had her usual pained

expression on her face.

Christ, she made him sick. Ever since the night of their honeymoon he’d never seen

anything but that suffering martyr’s look on her face. The only time she smiled was in

public, when she was forced to play the good-wife role. They hadn’t even slept together

since the honeymoon, eleven years ago. The only reason Cary, their younger son, got con-

ceived was that Danny had gotten so mad and drunk one night that he’d tied her up and

given her what she deserved. “Go back to your room,” he growled at her now. “This isn’t

any of your affair.”

Angelica retreated like a wraith to the elegant bedroom off their suite where she spent all

of her time reading and making lace, when not needed to pose with Danny for the cameras.

By early evening Danny had made a public statement about his innocence. He vaguely

hinted that this was the work of someone out to slander him but that he forgave him as

certainly the Lord did. And he did such a good job of making himself look like a victim

that public sympathy for him ran high. By the next morning Danny was still at the top of

the popularity polls and was able to laugh about the whole thing as he put away fried ham

steak and biscuits with gravy.

BUTTERFLY

329

And then a Lieutenant O’Malley came to the hotel, and Danny couldn’t refuse to see

him. He was a detective lieutenant with a detective sergeant in tow.

The man was clearly uncomfortable. He apologized profusely for disturbing the

Reverend and assured Danny that this wouldn’t take long, that it was just a matter of for-

mality, and that, in the investigation of the secret bordello above Fanelli, all parties even

remotely involved were being questioned.

“Believe me, sir,” the lieutenant said as he took a seat, “I discussed this with my supe-

riors. We debated all day yesterday whether or not to bother you with this. We finally

decided that we had no choice, considering what, er”—he cleared his throat—“we found

in the office upstairs.”

Danny stared at O’Malley. The man didn’t look like a detective. For one thing, he

appeared to be too short. For another, he struck Danny as being too nicely dressed. He

also looked to be a meticulously neat man—his shirt collar was immaculate and pressed,

his hair carefully slicked down, his hands pink and clean. Even the little notebook he

pulled out of his pocket looked too tidy, and Danny glimpsed neat, cramped handwrit-

ing.

“When we investigated the premises above the men’s store,” O’Malley began, not

looking Danny in the eye, “we found what was clearly the center of operations. It was a

room with a desk and telephones and a wall safe, which, when we opened it, was found to

contain a great deal of cash. Now, there were no written records or anything that could

give us a clue as to who worked there or who might have been customers there, but we
did

find a letter.” Now he raised his head and looked directly at Danny. “From you, sir.”

Danny blinked. “From me? What kind of letter, Lieutenant?”

“A letter of congratulations.”

“Congratulations!”

“Praising one, er”—he consulted his notebook—“Bob Manning for his efficiency and

for raising profits considerably. The letter has been verified as being authentic, Reverend.

It was written on Good News letterhead and signed by yourself.” Danny frowned and

said, “We must have sent out hundreds of those letters, Lieutenant. Whenever we receive

good reports from one of our investments we reward them with praise and encourage-

ment. That letter was referring to the men’s shop, Lieutenant, not to whatever Devil’s

work was going on upstairs!”

“Yes, well.” O’Malley cleared his throat again. “There was a photograph with the let-

ter. I have a copy of it here.” He reached inside his jacket. “We have the original at head-

quarters, of course, but as you can see, sir, this is a picture of you.”

Danny stared down at it, dumbfounded. There he was, against a backdrop of beach

and palm trees, sitting with a bikini-clad young beauty in his lap. He brought his head up

sharply and said, “Get Duane in here. Fast.”

Ten minutes later Danny Mackay’s attorney was assuring an apologetic Detective

O’Malley that the photograph was a fake and that “serious reprisals” would occur should

the picture somehow make it to the press.

“Would you have any idea who would create such a photograph of yourself, sir?”

O’Malley asked.

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Kathryn Harvey

Danny was fighting for self-control. “Well, Lieutenant,” he said with the unhappy

smile of a martyr, “it’s hard to believe, but I guess I’ve got a few enemies. Anyone doing

the Lord’s work has Satan and his minions as his enemies. And whoever put that piece of

filth together, well, I intend to pray for that man’s soul. Because he is in serious danger of

eternal hellfire.”

“Lieutenant,” Duane said, “what about this Bob Manning person? Why haven’t the

police found him?”

“We haven’t found him yet, but we have his home under surveillance, Mr. Chadwick,

and we’re interrogating anyone who might be able to tell us of his whereabouts. We’ve

questioned the employees of the men’s store, but they all claim not to have known about

the operation upstairs, and none of them knew Manning socially. But please rest assured

that we will find the perpetrator behind all this.”

As he was leaving, O’Malley paused at the door to say, “I just wanted you to know,

Mr. Mackay, that the wife and I voted for you, and that you have our votes come

November.”

“You have the Lord’s blessing, Lieutenant,” Danny said magnanimously. And then

when the detective and his silent assistant were gone, he turned around and growled,

“Whoever’s behind this, I aim to have his balls.”

48

Trudie was scared. Of herself, of her feelings for Bill.

As she sat at her desk sifting through the morning’s mail, she felt her mind return to

the squirrel cage it had been running on ever since her last encounter with Bill in Barry

Greene’s backyard. Should she take the chance, she had been asking herself over and over;

should she pursue the man as her feelings were telling her to, or should she play it safe and

let him go? For the first time since she could remember, Trudie was suddenly very much

concerned about a man’s opinion of her. The Saturday-night pickups, well, who cared

what they thought? She loved them and left them. And Thomas—he was paid to pretend

to like her. Whether or not he did wasn’t a question Trudie was troubled with. But

Bill…all of a sudden, here was a man whose view of her was very important to Trudie.

And she had no idea how he felt about her.

She was afraid of getting burned again. It frightened her to think of going to him, of

letting him know how she felt, only to be turned down, to be told that all he wanted to be

was friends. Which was worse, she wondered, making a fool of herself and wishing she’d

kept silent, or keeping silent and therefore never finding out how he felt about her? And

the most maddening thing about it all was that Trudie Stein, normally unafraid of risks

and challenges, was suddenly scared to death to put it to the test.

Cathy, her assistant, came through the door carrying two white paper sacks. “They

were out of chicken curry,” she said. “So I got the scrambled eggs with chorizo. Is that

okay?”

Trudie didn’t care; she wasn’t very hungry.

“Have you seen the paper today?” Cathy asked as she opened a carton of milk. “I just

can’t believe it! And I voted for Danny Mackay on Tuesday.”

Trudie looked up. She said, “What?” then remembered: yesterday’s shocker headline

about Mackay being linked to Butterfly! As soon as she’d seen it she had called Jessica.

Could it be time? they wondered. Was Good News Ministries behind the secret operation

above Fanelli? Jessica had briefly considered stepping forward and offering information to

the baffled police. But then sanity had overridden her Catholic conscience. “Let’s just

keep our mouths shut,” she said and Trudie had agreed.

Now Trudie looked at the headline and her coffee cup stopped at her lips, MACKAY

OWNER OF PORNO MAGAZINE.

“What on earth—?” she said, reaching for the paper.

“It’s positively amazing!” Cathy said. “Now they’ve found out that Danny Mackay

owns a girlie magazine, a string of illegal massage parlors, and the Hot Pink adult movie

theater chain. And he claims he knew nothing about it!”