Stranglehold (15 page)

She hesitated and then said, “Please never tell him I told you.”

So here I sat on the edge of an industrial zone. The streets were lined with food franchises, tattoo parlors, convenience stores, and strip malls that looked like they'd been lifted from third-world countries.

I didn't know how I was going to handle it. This was the man with all the answers, and I didn't much care how I got them.

The sun was behind the clouds. The afternoon had a faint scent of winter on it. Dog shit, what appeared to be dried human vomit, and the stain from a broken bottle of tomato juice covered the walk in front of room 146. Jagged pieces of glass looked like piranha teeth. Welcome home.

A game show played behind the faded red metal door. A female voice shouted, “Go for it, you stupid bitch! Go for it!” I had to knock loudly to be heard.

If you were drunk and forlorn enough, you might take her home when the bar announced last call for the night. She was maybe thirty and pretty in a ruined way. The breasts were balloons trapped inside a yellow terry-cloth halter. The exposed belly was fleshy but not unattractive. The lower
legs were shapely but the thighs were heavy. The red-and-blue cobra tattoos that climbed both her arms were nicely done. The teeth showed a heavy tobacco habit. And her right eye was her spiritual résumé. Somebody had punched her very hard and recently. She was a floozy. The hand on the hip, the cock of the head, the insolence of the brown gaze. “Who're you supposed to be?”

I smiled at the way she'd said it. “Well, I'm supposed to be a doctor. That's what my folks wanted. But it didn't turn out that way. Who're you supposed to be?”

“If it's any of your business, I'm supposed to be cutting hair at my sister's beauty shop right now, but she's such a bitch, I can't stand to be around her. So what do you want?”

“I'm looking for a man named Craig Donovan.”

“Yeah? Why?”

“I have a message for him.”

“I'm beginning to think you're a cop. I hate cops.”

“Not a cop. Just a private citizen with a message.”

The insolence was now anger. “You're lucky he isn't here. He'd punch your face in.”

“The same way he punched yours in?”

Her stubby fingers touched her eye. The wound was fresh enough that she winced. “He didn't mean it.”

“He mustn't have meant it when he put those bruises on your arm and neck, either.”

Her cheeks colored. “Maybe I had it coming. I got a little drunk and I was talking to this guy at the bar while Craig was in the john and—” Then: “Why the hell am I telling you anything? This isn't any of your business. Now, get out of here before he comes back.”

“Think he'll kick you around a little more if he sees me here?”

“It'd be worth it just to see him pound your face in. Now go.”

Behind her the phone rang. She traipsed back to it. Her bottom had survived her years. Nice and tight. She picked up and said, “Well, I can't
fucking help it how busy you are. I've got the flu. I already told you that and I can't come in.” Pause. “Well, what difference does it make if I'm sick in my apartment or sick over here?” Pause. “Well, you go right ahead and think I'm shacked up if you want. But I won't be in until I feel better.”

She slammed the phone down and came back. “My sister's a real bitch. She runs this beauty parlor down the street. She treats me worse than any of her other beauticians. They have a day or two off, she don't say anything. I take a few days off . . .”

I had no doubt that she was an ideal employee. She had a good attitude and seemed easy to get along with.

Behind her the TV crowd erupted. I wondered if the contestant had taken her advice and gone for it after all.

“My name's Dev Conrad. Tell him I work for Natalie Cooper and tell him that I'm staying at the Commodore Hotel.” I reached into the inside pocket of my suit coat and pulled out a loose card. “My cell phone number's on there. Tell him to give me a call.”

She snapped the card from my fingers and looked at it. Fear played in her eyes now. She swallowed hard. “When I give him this card he's going to say that you came into the room and I let you do something to me.”

“Grab your clothes. I'll take you anywhere you want to go. I don't want to see you get hit anymore.”

“For your information, I'm in love with him. He told me he'd marry me.” She was beyond help again. “I'm not gonna spend my life working for my sister, that's for sure.”

“What's your name?”

“Why?”

“Just like to know who I'm talking to.”

“Heather, if it's any of your fucking business.”

Somewhere in the ether the TV crowd had a collective orgasm.

She stepped back into the dank darkness of the room and slammed the door.

.   .   .

I was used to spending time with women who lived in apartments or condos. Chicago women mostly. It had been a long time since I'd pulled into a driveway and walked up to a door. Inevitably I thought of high-school days and facing parents in order to drag off their daughters for love or something like it. Even in your forties those memories are vivid. Too many of them were like opening night in front of a hostile audience. I always had to writhe through small talk while trying to seem as harmless as possible.
Yes, sir, I promise to get your daughter home at nine-thirty, and with her virginity still intact.

At least Jane didn't have a father on the premises. She opened the door in a rush of smiles and perfume and a small hand that squeezed one of mine. She wore a black wrap dress that emphasized her slender hips and small but most intriguing breasts. Her red beaded necklace matched the color of her lipstick. “This is exciting. A real date.”

Behind her in the vestibule two mutt cats—one golden tom and one black-and-white female—stood primly watching us. She turned to them and said, “Now you've got plenty of food and water. And I've left the TV on for you in the family room. I'll see you later.”

As she was locking the door, she said, “It's pathetic how I talk to them. But when my marriage started going south I guess they became the kids we never quite got around to having.”

“I've got a cat of my own in Chicago. She has my power of attorney.”

On the way to the restaurant she'd selected, she spent a few minutes trying to find a station that played old standards. “It's funny. I love a lot of the music today, even some of the rap. But when I want to feel like a grownup, I like Sinatra and Tony Bennett and people like that.”

“You like rap?”

“I said ‘some of it.' I had my twelve-year-old niece with me this summer for a month. Her folks are going through a divorce and we've always
been close, so she came out here from Connecticut to get away from everything at home. I couldn't believe how much rap she listened to. A very upper-class white girl. Anyway, I guess she wore down my defenses. There are three or four rap songs I actually enjoy.”

The restaurant was tucked into some pines. There were so many Beemers, the parking lot resembled a dealership. The owner was also the greeter, an Aspen type, a big guy in a red flannel shirt, a black leather vest, and jeans. The Rolex on his right wrist spoiled the effect he wanted—a TV version of a cowhand—as did the capped teeth. There were two levels to the place—the enormous fireplace and bar downstairs and the tall booths and tables on the second level. The waitress dressed pretty much like the greeter. She was young and sweet and probably couldn't afford a Rolex. While we waited for our drinks, Jane said, “If I start getting drunk, stop me. I'm an embarrassing drunk, believe me.”

“I've been known to be pretty embarrassing myself.”

“Did you ever get into fights?”

“Not when I was drunk. Sometimes when I worked in army intelligence but not very often.”

“My soon-to-be ex thought he was a heavyweight champion when he got drunk. He was always picking fights. When he woke up the next morning I'd have to remind him of what he'd done.”

“I've had too many of those nights myself.”

“Did you drink a lot when you were married?” Then, “Damn.”

“What?”

“I shouldn't have asked that question. It was stupid.”

“Logical question given what we were talking about. And no, it wasn't the drinking; it was the fact that I spent so much time away from home working on campaigns. I wasn't faithful and neither was she. She had a good excuse for it. I didn't.”

“Do you get along with her now?”

“I don't see her that often. My daughter says that she's very happy with her new husband. I'm glad for her. I was a selfish bastard. When I
found out she had a lover, I got jealous and stupid. I ranted for days even though I'd pushed her into it.”

“Maybe she would have been unfaithful anyway.”

“Maybe. But the point is, I blamed her when I'd been unfaithful long before she was.”

We started in on the warm bread hidden in a basket and wrapped in a heavy wine-red napkin. As she picked up the butter knife, she said, “I tried to be unfaithful one time. I found this note in his pocket from one of the secretaries where he works. It was obvious what was going on. I got dressed up and went out to a bar just the way women do in movies, and I sat at a little table and three or four men hit on me. I was never a beauty like Susan, but I did all right. And it was fun sitting there and flirting and feeling the way I did in college. But when it came down to going home with this guy—and he was really good-looking—I just couldn't do it. And it's not because I'm so moral or anything. We'd been married for eleven years and even when he was cheating—I guess I just didn't want to be like him. Does that make any sense?”

“Sure.”

The salmon steaks were very good. We both drank Manhattans. The longer we talked the more I liked her, and in the candlelight her sensible good looks took on real beauty. I knew I was getting interested in her because I was starting to wonder what she thought of me as well.

“Are you dying to ask me about Susan?”

“Well, I thought I'd get around to it eventually.”

“She called me.” Her expression and her voice tightened. “I sounded flip just a moment ago. I shouldn't have. I'm really worried about her.”

“What did she say?”

“Nothing new, really. But her tone of voice—really desperate. Something must have happened. This is just terrible for her. She's so afraid that the press will find out about Bobby before she's ready to talk to them about it. It doesn't help that Natalie keeps trying to control everything. Natalie still believes she can contain this thing. That sure doesn't help
Susan any. I've told her that I can't see how this will be such a terrible scandal. She put her boy up for adoption. She didn't abort him. And he got a much better home environment than she could have given him at the time. I guess I don't understand politics.”

The waitress appeared and asked us about dessert. Neither of us was interested. I asked for the check.

“It's early yet,” I said. “Would you like to go someplace else?”

“Not really. I'd rather just go back to my house. Maybe watch TV. Hopefully with you along.”

“That sounds good. I just hope professional wrestling's on tonight.”

She made a face. “Are you serious?”

“No,” I said.

“God, you do deadpan very well. I thought, This guy likes professional wrestling?”

“I mostly watch old movies and talk shows.”

“I get tired of all those talking heads. They think they're so important.”

“You noticed that, huh?” I said as I signed the MasterCard form.

A few minutes later we were walking through the night to my rental. Jane leaned against me. I had my arm around her shoulders. The parking lot had been full, so we'd had to slide into the lone slot in the narrow drive of the business next door, right on the edge of the adjacent loading dock.

She'd tucked herself into me as we walked. Her head came just to my chest and I could smell clean hair and light perfume. She felt good there. Comfortable. I was looking forward to going back to her house. I didn't think I'd be spending the night, but I was sure we'd know each other a lot better by the time I left. My daughter was always urging me to meet somebody. Maybe I had.

There was little light and that made it all the easier for him. As I leaned over to unlock her door, he ran at me and leapt on my back. I didn't even have time to turn around. He honored the verities of an
earlier era. He wore brass knuckles and he hit me hard enough and fast enough that I was on the ground before Jane could even start screaming. Elapsed time was seconds.

He stank of sweat, whiskey, and aftershave. As I twisted around I got a glimpse of red hair and a pair of insane blue eyes. I was aware of Jane trying to pull him off me. He somehow flung her away with such force that she fell over backward. I heard her crash on the concrete. She was still screaming.

I was on my hands and knees, trying to get my footing, fighting through the pain from the pounding my head had taken.

“Tell that bitch the price is double now, Conrad. I want another payment of the same amount by eight o'clock tomorrow night. You understand that?”

I found my rage. I came up off the ground so fast that I surprised him. I slammed into him with such force that he had to struggle to stay upright. I was all fists and fury. The biggest problem I had was my vision. All the brass punches had taken their toll. My vision was gauzy. I was still swinging at him, but he'd moved back and I was starting to stumble.

I heard Jane behind me. Running toward me. “He's got a gun, Dev!”

And so he had. Later on it would have a strange humor for me. Brass knucks and a gun. Susan Cooper sure had picked a sweetie pie.

Between my failing eyesight and my pain, he didn't need his gun to make sure I was no threat. He just lunged forward and shoved me. Not even rage could keep me upright. I slumped against the rental. I could hear him running away, but it was just sensory data. I was too weak to care.