Drawing Dead (8 page)

Ms. Chandler’s entrance had a way of unsettling things. She arrived with little ceremony but a great deal of impact. She was dressed in red this time. Not an insistent red. More of an autumn, leaf-turning, cooling red. Everything matched: the shoes, the purse, the look in her eye. And everything looked very, very expensive.

Mr. Redman, she said after a pleasantry or two, perhaps you have some initial thoughts?

Thoughts? I asked, turning myself to the three-quarter view. Ah, yes. About your sister. Well, I have to admit you haven’t given me a whole lot to go on.

There’s only so much I wanted to commit to paper.

Of course, I replied.

There are some other … complications.

I see. Well, I’d be happy to hear about them. But first—

Money, she said. You don’t have to worry about that.

I’m not worried, I said, pleased that she’d gotten my drift. At least, you seem like a person with resources. But I think we need to make sure that we’re on the same page. Now, this seems to be a missing persons case. I gather there are some complications, as you say. But it’s still a missing persons case. And frankly, Ms. Chandler, as much as I sympathize, missing persons cases tend to be rather, well, routine, shall we say. And it just strikes me that my, our, rates might be a little more than you would want to be paying, simply to track down your sister.

How do you mean, routine?

What I mean is, almost everybody in this day and age leaves a trail. Used to be called a paper trail. Now it’s electronic. Residence, driver’s license, credit cards, cell phone records, everything. And all of it’s in a computer somewhere. And you say she’d been ill. There are hospital records. Though those are hard to get. Privacy laws and all. But there are outfits that specialize in getting access to all those types of information. They do it very inexpensively. Because they specialize.

She recrossed her legs.

Volume, she said.

Yes, I replied, pondering those legs. Volume.

Well, thank you for that. As a matter of fact, it merely serves to increase my confidence in you. That you would tell me that. Not that it needed any increasing. If Mr. Kennedy recommends you, I know you’re good at what you do.

Well, thank you, Ms. Chandler …

But you needn’t be concerned. I’ve already tried that route, you see. I’ve had all the data mined.

Ah, I said. And?

Nothing.

Nothing?

Not a trace of her. Not since she moved to Nevada.

That’s very unusual.

So they tell me.

Hmm. Likely she changed her name, then. But her social security number would have brought something up. You did give them her social security number?

Of course.

And your letters weren’t returned.

That’s right.

Odd.

Yes.

Well, then. I guess we have some work to do. We’d be happy to do our best. Now, please understand that this is just routine, but—

You need a retainer.

She said it with a touch of amusement. The waiter arrived with her cosmopolitan. He had a large black growth like a sleeping rat on the side of his neck. I repressed a double-take. But if Ms. Chandler noticed, she wasn’t letting on. She took her drink with the same practiced smoothness that she did everything else.

Um, yes, I said. A retainer.

How much?

In spite of her charms, I didn’t really feel like getting tangled up in Ms. Chandler’s little family drama. First, it sounded fishy as hell. And even if it wasn’t fishy, it was probably going to get nasty. These family things always do. And, skin or no skin, her imperious manner was getting on my nerves. And I had poker to play. So if I was going to do it—if we were going to do it—it was going to have to be profitable.

One thing I need to tell you, I said.

Yes?

I’ll be going to Las Vegas shortly. And when I’m there, I’ll be playing a good deal of poker. It’s the World Series of Poker. So I won’t be spending full time on your case.

Mr. Redman, in the first place, I would assume that even if you didn’t have this … poker thing, you have other clients. I wouldn’t expect you to be devoting your every waking hour to my little problem. And the fact that you’ll be in Nevada anyway, she laughed a knowing laugh, well, it’s rather convenient, isn’t it? Which occurred to me when Mr. Kennedy told me you’d be there.

I made a note to tell Kennedy to keep his damn mouth shut.

Ah, I said, as though I’d known it all along. Of course.

I also have business in Nevada, she said.

You do?

Yes. I have some property interests.

I see.

So you will not be surprised if I mysteriously appear.

This seemed to be intended as a joke of sorts. I chuckled appreciatively.

So, she said. The retainer?

Twenty thousand, I said without thinking.

Fine, she replied without hesitation.

Oh my, I thought.

By wire transfer, I said. I’ll give you the account information.

I pulled over a napkin. Wrote it down.

Still she didn’t blink.

Fine, she said, folding the napkin neatly and placing it in her elegant red purse. You’ll receive it tomorrow.

Damn, I thought, is this how it works all the time? I could get used to this business.

Well, I said, perhaps we could talk a bit about the details.

Let’s do that, said Ms. Chandler.

She put the purse aside. Unbuttoned her jacket. The blouse beneath was silk, airy. Not exactly revealing, but, how to put it? Enticing.

At the next table were a couple of the regulars. Long Henry, given to poetic pronouncements and other non sequiturs, was trying to impress a middle-aged woman in a hippie-style dress that had seen a lot of days and nights in a lot of bars.

I used to be a professor, he said.

What happened? asked the woman.

She was fiddling with something in her macramé bag. After a while I realized it was a dog. Not one of those poofed-up little-old-lady dogs. Some mangy thing with red eyes.

Happened? asked Henry, seeming genuinely confused.

To your job, she said. As a professor.

Oh that, he said vaguely. I don’t remember.

Now, about this Russian fellow you mentioned? I asked Ms. Chandler. Were they married?

Are
they married?

Sorry. I didn’t mean … I mean, I didn’t mean to assume, imply, I thought perhaps they were divorced. Or perhaps I meant, had they been married? I mean, I didn’t mean to say that she may have come to any harm.

Never mind, she said. No, she’s never been married. That I know of.

Was she living with him?

Not that I’m aware of. But I don’t know.

Still seeing him, last you heard?

Well, I don’t really know. She wasn’t, isn’t, in the habit of talking to me about her personal life. I don’t even remember how I know about him, to tell you the truth.

Do you remember his name?

Vladimir, I believe.

Last name?

I’m not sure I ever knew his last name.

Did she ever say they’d broken up or anything?

No. I don’t think so.

Okay. Well, normally we’d start with him. But we don’t even have a last name. I think somebody’s just going to have to go to the last address you have, ask around.

I’ve already paid somebody to do that.

I understand. I see. Yes. But you pay guys like us for a reason. Maybe we ask a few questions they forgot to ask, or in a different way, if you know what I mean. Ask somebody those guys didn’t think of asking. Follow stuff up. Those guys, they run a service. They have a checklist. They do the minimum. They cash your check. If someone’s … uh … trying to lay low, they’ll never find them.

All right. I understand.

Okay. Another thing. You mentioned that she’d been ill.

Yes.

And in your note, it said something about being allergic to sunlight?

Yes.

What did you mean by that?

I did not mean anything by that. That is what she told me. To tell you the truth, it has always puzzled me.

I can understand that. It puzzles me, too. I mean, wouldn’t you move to England, rather than the desert, if you were allergic to sun light? But we can do some research. Figure out what she could have been talking about.

I would appreciate that.

By the way, I was curious about one other thing.

Yes?

You asked if I had a gun.

That seems to be a bit of a detour. From the job at hand.

Yes. Maybe. But it made me wonder. I mean, your sister is missing. She’s been ill. Nothing you’ve told me would make me think that there’s likely to be any danger in trying to track her down.

Ms. Chandler gazed at me a moment, a small smile at the corners of her mouth. She smoothed her hair. Looked away with a teasing air.

I was just curious, Mr. Redman. I’ve never dealt with a private investigator before.

I see.

But I like it that you asked. It gives one confidence. That you would notice something like that. Follow it up.

Well, thank you, I said. So, we’ll check out that address. Start there. As soon as we get to Las Vegas. I’ll check it out. Or one of my associates will.

The one with the pretty face?

The one with …

The fellow on the stairs. At your house.

Oh. Yes. Brendan. Probably. Do you have a problem with that?

Oh no, not at all. I assume he knows what he’s doing, if he’s with you. I’m sure you trained him well.

Oh, sure, I lied. You can count on Brendan.

Ms. Chandler was laughing.

It was rather disconcerting.

M
Y EYES PEELED OPEN
. I looked at my watch. Ten past noon.

I love an early start to the day.

I glanced through the mail. Anything that looked official meant I owed somebody money. I threw it out. Anything colorful, with pictures, was potential entertainment. Catalogs were fun. They could only take you so far out of your world, though. Eventually you had to get up, put on some clothes. Do something.

The phone rang.

Brendan.

Brighton Beach, he said. Six o’clock.

I don’t know, I said. I forgot about that.

What do you mean, you don’t know?

I pissed off Evgeny. He’ll be there, for sure. I’m not sure I’m comfortable going there when Big Daddy’s not happy with me.

Don’t worry about that. I took care of it.

What do you mean, you took care of it?

I mean it’s okay. I talked to the guys about it. He’s not pissed.

The guys?

Andrei and Tolya.

What the fuck do they know?

They know. And anyway, you don’t want to be a pussy, do you?

It was funny hearing that from Brendan.

Okay, I said. But let’s go to the All In Club first. Warm up a bit on some fish.

Good plan. Let’s meet at Puffie’s.

Where’s that? I asked.

Right next to Shoegasm.

Did I hear that right?

Yeah. It’s a shoe store on Twenty-seventh.

Must be a good one.

If you like big heels.

I found some less than rotting jeans. I buttoned up a ridiculous Hawaiian shirt. The black one with the pineapples. I threw on my ultra-faded bomber jacket, circa 1942. I’d found it in a vintage shop in Brooklyn. I figured it was thematic. I posed for the mirror. I looked completely ridiculous.

Perfect.

Then I thought about the Mauser. Brighton Beach. Russians. Not to mention that I’d pissed off Evgeny. Let’s be prudent. I took off the jacket. Pulled the antique holster over my head. It fit snugly. It felt nice. Safe. Safer, even, with the gun in it.

I put the Mauser in it.

Truth was, it felt a little dangerous. I mean, I’d had one lesson. I get in a gun thing with somebody, something tells me that guy’s used his a bit more than me. I’m going to lose. I’m going to die.

Fuck that. It made me feel manly.

Manly was good.

Puffie’s was good, too, in a different kind of way. It was one of those old-time New York taverns, dark and warm and the walls plastered with famous people’s publicity shots.
Puffie you’re the greatest
, scrawled
Desi Arnaz.
Puffie, loved the shepherd’s pie
, from Jack Palance. That kind of stuff.

Brendan walked in. I had to suppress a double take. He was decked out in designer chic. Form-fitting black silk shirt, tailored black pants, a Dior belt buckle saying exactly that, Dior, in brass letters at least three inches tall. He had a black leather jacket, too. But it sure didn’t come from the same place I got mine. And there I was, in my pseudo Hawaiian biker cowboy dude outfit. We must have been the oddest couple in town.

Brendan got a few looks. He was a handsome guy. Tanned, in great shape. A vague resemblance to Sylvester Stallone, but more refined. He’d had a part in a straight-to-video parody once, playing the Stallone part. Silently. His voice was too high. They’d dubbed in someone who talked like a man. That was about as far as his acting career got. A couple small parts in commercials. The Ant Terminator, dressed up like Schwarzenegger in the movies. Couldn’t even see his face. Hasta la vista, vermin, he said. His only spoken line.

Brendan spent a lot of time in the gym toning those tanned muscles. Hired a voice coach to turn him at least into a tenor. That Stallone thing had shaken him up. He wanted to be the perfect manly object. For other men. But the funny thing was, never mind the muscles, he was the biggest wimp on earth. One night he’d wandered into the wrong neighborhood and got chased halfway around Manhattan by a gang of twelve-and thirteen-year-olds. He’d come over to my place in tears. Hid in the basement for three days getting over it.

He’d grown up gay in a rural Midwestern community. That’ll do it to you. His only friend had been his sister. That’ll make it worse.

Do you really have to flaunt it that much? I asked.

Flaunt what?

The belt buckle, for starters.

That’s a Dior, he said defensively.

You’re kidding me, I said.

The shirt’s Dior, too. Five hundred dollars at Bergdorf’s.

Five hundred bucks that didn’t come out of your pocket.

Not a chance, he said.