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A Modern Romance Odette mewed from the bed, calling out to him. She batted her eyes at him, then propped herself up on her elbows, letting the white bed sheets slip off her chest. The sun flitted in from the edges of the drawn shades and outlined the curves of her breasts. "Don't you want to come back to bed," she said, smoothing the empty area beside her with an open palm. He stood before the full-length mirror, his white shirt untucked but buttoned at the collar, his red tie unmade about his neck. She liked the color of his tie. He paused, his face wrinkling in the mirror. “Oh don’t give me that look. You know you want to,” she said. He continued to tell himself he couldn't. After all, he still had to prepare for his morning meeting. He entered the oversized bathroom and said: "I see what you're trying to do.” “You think? What gave it away?” She laughed. The previous night, the restaurant was full of people in expensive clothes. Laughter, the clink of wine glasses and drunken toasts, and the quiet roar of everyone talking at once. He sat at his usual table, sipping on his Maker's Mark, as he watched her enter the room led to the table by a bald maître’d. Resplendent in a cobalt blue evening dress, low cut in the back, she had sat and smiled at him and asked if he liked the dress. He wondered what kind of complicated bra she had going on underneath. He wanted to take her right there. He gave her a thin Tiffany blue box with a white silk ribbon. She gazed at the impressive diamond necklace and said it was beautiful. She leaned over, gripped his hands and said she loved him. He stared into her eyes and could have stayed there for hours. She asked about the divorce paperwork and said, "Did you give it to her yet?" He shifted his glance to the table beside him. A four-top with three young keenly dressed businessmen. Drunk, and they just ordered another bottle of wine and showed no signs of slowing down. He said, "I just can't yet. My wife, she doesn't-" She rolled her eyes at the mention of his wife. "But you promised." A promise first made several months ago when he was on top of her with his pants heaped around his ankles. A promise she made him repeat until he believed it. * * * From behind today's paper, Detective Balotelli watched her leave the lobby. He looked annoyed, impatient as he checked his watch. Check out was at 10 AM and she hadn’t emerged from the elevator until almost two, decked out in an wide brim hat, matching oversized black shades and thin hoop earrings that bounced when she strutted across the tiled lobby in her high heels. He watched her enter into a waiting yellow cab. Balotelli folded his paper and dropped it on the sofa and walked over to the front desk and flashed a knock-off NYPD badge he bought online for fifty bucks. Clearly printed on the back – "unofficial, theatrical use only". He flashed the badge and said, "Detective Balotelli. I'm investigating a high end prostitution ring that is operating out of this hotel." The front desk clerk, blanched, and said, "Let me get the hotel manager." A moment later the manager stood before Balotelli and said, "Yes, how can I help you?" He wore all white with a matching gray sweater vest; he remained composed as Balotelli explained how the hotel was being used by several professional high-end escorts charging as much as fifteen thousand a night. "I see," said the manager glancing around the lobby, emptied fortunately, of any guests. "This hotel is their base of operations." "Are you certain?" the manager said. "I have been tailing a number of suspects and I have a case file-" he held up his thumb and forefinger about an inch apart - "that big. I am certain that this place is where they operate. I understand the sensitivity of this case. I don’t want this to be a public matter. I’ll need you to help me with this.” "I thank you for your -" he paused, and said, "discretion." "Yes, of course. I was hoping you could answer a few questions for the investigation." "Why don't we go into my office? It is much more – private." Balotelli was led to a small windowless office tucked behind the front reception. The manager took his place behind his desk, but Balotelli did not sit. He placed several photos on the desk and said, "Have you seen her before?" "I recognize the face. She’s definitely familiar. Who is she?" "A person of interest." “She’s attractive.” “You think so? Have you seen her in here before? Perhaps with other men?” “I don’t think so. But I really can’t remember.” "When was the last time she was here?" The manager shrugged his shoulders, and continued to stare into the photographs. "Let me check." He brought up the manifest on the computer and called in the front desk clerk. Balotelli repeated his query. The manager typed at his computer and said, “She called the front desk a few times this morning. She asked for a late check out. It wasn't a problem since we didn’t have any new check-ins until later. Then she called again to find out what card the room was billed to. She said her husband might have used the wrong card.” Balotelli gave the manager a helpless look and said, "Did you give her the information?" "Yes, I did. Did I do something wrong? She said she was his wife. I can get the room receipts, if that helps." The manager, his brows arched, said, "What’s this about? We protect our client's privacy-" "Don’t make me get a subpoena. I'm sure your patrons wouldn’t be too happy to know that you run a high-class whorehouse under this roof. I have been tracking this individual for prostitution, credit card fraud and identity theft. She targets high worth individuals." The manager nodded at the clerk and waved him off. Balotelli cleared his voice and said, "That's a pretty typical move. The john pays for the room with a credit card and she manages to get access to it. I need to contact the card holder and advise them of the situation." "They stayed in the premier suite for the night. He paid with his credit card, but got a discount. He books a room here about every week. They had room service, a bottle of Dom Perignon, oysters, shrimp. Pretty fancy spread. This morning, breakfast. And then a massage and spa treatment-" "For how many?" "Just one." "It also looks like she ordered several designer outfits from the boutique in the mezzanine level." "How much?" "Total: three grand. Billed to the room." "May I look at that?" The manager said yes, and Balotelli snatched it from the clerk's hands. Balotelli stepped through the night in his mind as he read the list. Every purchase was time stamped, providing a clear timeline of the events. But the most important piece of information was the name on the credit card: Russ W. Harman. "What is delivery service charge?" "The items she purchased are marked for delivery service. We offer that to-" "Can I get that address?" "We will have to check with the merchant directly. We do not keep that information. Terry can help you with that. Detective, I cannot urge you enough to honor our agreed upon discretion. Our clients do not want to read about this hotel in a tawdry gossip piece. They value their privacy and so do we. If we feel that one of our clients has had their privacy violated, we will work with the authorities to ensure that this does not happen again. Do you understand our situation?" "Clearly. Here is my badge number, the case number, and my direct line. Please do not hesitate to contact me with any more information or concerns. You have been most accommodating." * * * Balotelli sipped at a Coke and waited until 4pm before he entered 700 East 53rd. He was able to get the following information from two phone calls after he spoke with the hotel manager: Russ W. Harman, partner at Jannks, Tilden and Associates, had been working there for almost twenty years. Married to Emma T. Wilson, of Huntsville Alabama. Two children, Russ Jr, and Jordan. He rides the 17 train home almost everyday to Tuxedo, NY, where he owns a five bedroom English Tudor that he bought for 3.24 million seven years ago. Why would he throw this all away on a girl named Odette, he wondered. Balotelli called the main office line and said a delivery was en-route requiring his signature. The secretary had put him on hold while she confirmed. A moment later she said that was fine. Russ Harman would be available after 4pm. It was time. Balotelli flicked the cigarette with his thumb and forefinger and entered the building and rode the elevator to the fifth floor. The secretary was younger than she sounded on the phone, the office not as richly decorated as he imagined given that the firm provided legal counsel for several large hedge funds that always seem to be attached to the financial headlines. "I am here to see Mr. Harman and I know that he's in. Tell him it's regarding his hotel stay." She looked puzzled and returned to her desk and told Balotelli to head right in. Russ W. Harman greeted Balotelli at the door and motioned for him to take a seat. His office was large, but much like the decor of the floor, it needed an overhaul. "Is there a problem? Are you from the hotel?" "No, I'm Detective Balotelli with the NYPD Vice division." Balotelli flashed his badge. He let that sink in before continuing and said, "I have some questions about the woman you were with last night." "What's this about?” “Were you at the Bishop last night?” “I don’t have to tell you anything. You know that I am attorney? And you do know that I don't have to answer any of the questions unless I am being formally charged. What division did you say you were with?" "Vice." "I wasn't aware the city had a Vice division. Is it new? I thought everything was now under Special Crimes." Harman saw through Balotelli and Balotelli recognized this. He had to move quickly. He dropped three photos on his desk. "Let’s try this one more time. Do you know her?" Photos of Odette. "I've never seen her before. What’s the-” Balotelli handed over two more photos, shots of Valerie and Harman. Laughing at a bar, holding hands as they walked down an emptied sidewalk late at night, and the last one, the two of them kissing outside the hotel. "Looks like you didn’t play your hand right. I'll ask you again, do you know her?" Harman leafed through the photos one last time and then placed them in a neat stack and pushed the pile towards the end of his desk. "What do you want from me? Do you want money? Is that it?" he said, defeated. "I just need information. About her. That's it. Then you'll never see me again, or these fucking photos.” Harman sighed. He told his secretary that he was not to be bothered. Arms crossed on his chest, he said, "I take it you’re not with Vice.” Balotelli nodded. “Ok, what’s this about?" He pulled the stack of photos close to him, and fanned them across his desk and reviewed them again, slower this time. First thing he considered: how much would his wife get in a divorce if these fell into her hands. "How did you find her?" "Odette. She's beautiful isn't she?" Harman sighed, and said, "I found her online. Elite Escorts. That was about a year ago." Balotelli lit up a cigarette and regarded the small-framed Russ with a steely eye. "Her website said she was 25 years old, educated, and enjoyed opera and Dante. She's not 25. She's over 30 - that's for sure. Possibly Italian, something Mediterranean is my guess. But I didn't care. She was different. When I'm with her-" "Before you tell me any more,” he paused as he took a drag from his cigarette, and said, “I need to tell you why I'm here. I'm going to give it to you straight. Just listen to me. Got it?” Balotelli finished his cigarette and said, “I'm not the bad guy here. Remember that. So you're seeing her for a year, and you think she's your girlfriend. But that's what you’re buying. The girlfriend experience, right? But soon, she's calling you, asking you your opinion on things. First it’s for little things. She’s asking you for advice, what should she do? You start hearing about her dreams. Soon, she's telling you that she wants to leave the business. And then, you think she’s your girl. She makes you feel like a love struck teenager. Then she tells you why she got into whoring was because she owed the wrong people a lot of money. You find yourself thinking about her more and more and you think that this, this relationship has a chance. You start giving her more money not because of pity, but you really care for her and you want to. And the thought that she's out there at night giving it out for money kills you. You tell her over coffee or breakfast somewhere in the East Village, you tell her that you want her to stop. That you'll do whatever it takes to get her to stop getting paid for sticking her legs up in the air. And you know what? She takes you up on it. She tells you about some lame business idea that she wants to pursue, and guess what? She just needs cold hard cash. Am I close? Then she wants you to do something. She wants you to get a divorce. To leave your wife, your family, that nice Tudor up in the country. And together you can start your new lives together, maybe in some loft in SoHo. Am I right?" Harman didn’t move; his eyes fixed on the wall behind Balotelli. "Before you tell me she's different, she's done this before. How much is she into you for?" Harman was giving him a pale look and said, "I gave her a two hundred thousand dollar loan. She wanted to get into real estate." All Harman could see were those pouty lips as she casually mentioned it. He remembered the way her cinnamon skin was accented by the white lingerie corset and he went after her hook line and sinker, mumbling something that it sounded like a great idea. Percy had seen Valerie three times already, just for the hour sessions, each about a grand a pop. Tonight was dinner and it was going to set him back about four large for about three and a half hours not including the actual meal or the bottle of Cheval Blanc that he was planning on ordering. Percy counted out forty hundred dollar bills and placed them in an envelope then tucked the envelope in his inside coat pocket. Percy was to pick up Valerie in about an hour so he still had time. This was the hard part. Wendell Blanchard had watched Percy get dressed with a detached interest. Closer to forty-five than he'd care to admit, Percy was an attractive man with a thick crop of manicured black hair and movie star good looks. Percy ran the plan again in his head for the hundredth time, and said to Wendell, "This is going to work." "I don't care about that. Where've you been the last few months? Jesus. She's going to bite and when she does we're going to take her for everything she's got. By the time she realizes what's happened, we'll be splitsville. I’m setting the hook tonight.” Wendell Blanchard, from Sugarland, Texas, was doing the tail end of a five year stint for identify theft and electronic fraud when Percy walked into his cell. From the moment Percy shook Wendell's hand, looked him in the eye, the two hit if off and started talking in the yard. Percy knew how to fight, but even better, he knew how to talk himself out of it. By the end of the first week, he had connections to get cigarettes, prison hooch, and dope. All traded on his name and promises, most of which he made good on. And Wendell was right there alongside him. Percy could talk to any one about anything, and sound like he knew what he was talking about. Wendell would spend his days and nights listening to Percy talk about how he met and fleeced millionaires, how he once forged a VIP press credential so he could interview Guns N Roses. He recounted how he ended up getting drunk with the band and sold the story to Rolling Stone magazine for a small bundle then blew it all with a drug fueled party with hookers and a live band. Percy was the real deal thought Wendell. Percy rented a three-story penthouse off of Central Park West, in a white-bricked building near the museums. In the morning, limos whisked the well-heeled children off to private schools, maids walked purebred dogs, and the streets were cleaned. And each month, Percy had to come up with 15 large for rent. The long con, as Percy explained it to Wendell, required proper financing. Wendell partially resurrected a network of zombie machines that targeted user bank accounts and online payment centers. With the account numbers, Wendell would make imprint cards to be used once. There were thousands of ATMs in New York City, so the chances of getting caught were fairly low, if only capturing a few thousand dollars a day in fraudulent transactions. Any more than that, and banks would be on high alert. With each card, they would withdraw the maximum amount and destroy it. At first, Wendell gave Percy a look that said no way, but Percy promised all he had to was produce the cards, and Percy would do the rest. Percy got her name from Balotelli who said there was an escort bilking high rollers out of millions and socking away the cash. She had the taste for the money and the lifestyle and Percy said he had an idea. She was the big score. Her breasts pressed flat against the cold glass as he entered her from behind. Moans gushed from between her clenched lips; she pushed her left hand between her thighs, feeling his shaft slide in and out of her with her fingers. Afterwards they both sat in bed, sharing a joint. "What's Wendell doing here again?" Valerie had moved in two weeks ago, and almost immediately did not get along with Wendell. Valerie found him physically repulsive and angry. "He's just renting a room from me. That’s all. He makes websites. He can work from anywhere," Percy said stiffly, too practiced. She took a puff, held it in, and blew it out overhead in a giant single plume. Almost thoughtfully, she said, "Like me." Percy shot her a sideways glance. "Not any more." She giggled. She was impulsive he found out. He liked that and wondered how much of it was for show. "He's my cousin. From Ohio." He passed the joint to Valerie. "He's a bit awkward. Strange. He just sits in that room for hours and hours. I thought there was something wrong with him when I first met him. He’s so skinny. Does he eat?" Valerie looked at Percy and said, "How much longer is he going to stay here?" "Is that what this is about?" "I don’t like the way he looks at me. I want to be able to walk around the apartment naked.” She giggled again. "I'll talk to him in the morning then. I guess he's odd. I never thought of him that way. I just thought of him as Wendell. Poor little Wendell." She coughed and wheezed, the last hit too strong for her. She finally said huskily, "Do you have to work today?" "Yeah. Busy day." She made a sad face. "You want to listen to some music?" "Ah, Detective Balotelli was it?" Russ said as he slid into the leather-upholstered seat and recognized the man who once stood before him and presented a fake NYPD badge. "You can call me Bruno." Bruno stared at Russ with a sharp glare dismissing the good-natured jest from Russ. Between the bar and the general seating area, the men sat hunched over in a narrow booth. Minimalist paintings hung on the walls illuminated with track lighting. Russ Harman and Bert Davis sat on one side of the table, Percy and Bruno opposite. Percy measured the men in careful glances and already had them figured out. Both men were Ivy Leaguers, well groomed and cultured, more at ease at bullying the valet than a couple of ex-cons. Russ in a fitted camel hair topcoat, Bert in an oversized black leather jacket and white turtleneck, looked out of place across from Bruno and Percy. After the men introduced themselves, Bert ordered a round of Maker's Mark. Valerie made off with over $150,000 that Bert wanted back. She said it was for a chance to start an event planning company in Manhattan and Bert thought it was a good idea. Percy knew that 150k to a guy like him was nothing more than weekend's gambling loses. What he wanted, like Russ, was revenge. These were men used to getting their way, and Valerie came along and fucked it away. Now they wanted to reset the order of their universe. Bruno arranged the meeting, summoning four of Valerie’s clients who he had tracked down. He figured by all estimates there was almost three million dollars on the table. The two other men agreed to meet, but never showed up. Bert felt his throat tighten with anger. He clenched and unclenched his hands and said: "I just want my money back. That's all." The drinks came; Bert shoved his oversized nose in the glass before downing it in a single gulp. "I am just trying to understand expectations. You both want revenge. That's why we're sitting here, almost in the dark on the lower east side. You don't care about the money. Am I right?" Russ said, “It’s still a – “ Bert cut him off and said, "It’s not even close." He leaned closer in on the table and said, "Just give me five minutes with her-" "That's what you want? To rough up a girl that weighs as much as your left leg?" Bert didn't like being interrupted but Percy didn’t care and eyeballed him hard. Unmoved, Bert said: "Let's get something straight here. You bastards need to understand, I'm connected." And he took his great slab of a fist and pounded his own chest. "I'm connected. If you two assholes try to double cross me – you're dead." He dragged his finger across his throat. "Now, I want the name of this broad that double crossed me." Hatred flickered across his eyes, like light glinting off a clean blade. Russ started to say something, but Bruno spoke over him and said, "Listen." Bruno sat back in his seat, his face out of the light, hidden in the shadow. He continued and said, “Can you believe this fuckin guy? Bert is it? What's yer limp dick gonna do? Nuthin. Connected you say? Sheeet. You're gonna sit here and shuddafuckup and listen. And I'm gonna tell you what you're going to do and how yuse gonna feel. You talking to an ex-con. You already out of hope. You're desperate. If you were so connected, why you talking to us? Shit. You want revenge and we're the only way you're gonna get it. Do us all a favor and stop playing tough guy.” Russ remained quiet. "Listen, let’s talk about why we're here,” Percy said. “Her real name is Connie Hernandez and she's worth more alive than dead." Russ looked pleased. Percy removed a small notepad from his blazer inside breast pocket and said, "She's from Oklahoma, went to college at Miami of Ohio on a gymnastic scholarship. She didn't graduate and moved to New York where she started dancing, off off Broadway." He glanced up from his notes before he continued. “Connie Hernandez, but you may also know her as Valerie, Odette, or Nina Cortese, is worth about seven million dollars that she’s stashed in airport lockers, safety deposit boxes-" “Why does she still do it if she’s worth that much? Why not walk away?” “She wants another big score.” He looked at her in the cab ride home, and thought it was getting out of hand. Percy was pretty sure that they were being followed so he told the cabbie to back track through the park. She was tired and put her head on his shoulder and held his hand. It wasn't easy for Percy. He tried to keep thinking about all that money but it didn't matter. But what about Wendell and the Kurd? Bruno would understand either way, they would just never work together again. Bruno would respect that. The Kurd would want his money and he didn’t care how he got it. Percy returned his attention to the cityscape outside the cab window, as if the answer to his dilemma existed out there. He had spent months doing the job, and in the process, had enlisted the help of others, most of whom did not know the entire details of the score only the details relevant to their individual job itself. What would happen if he pulled the rug out from under the operation? Usually, this wouldn't be a problem. But this time, he made the mistake of letting his emotions get the better of him. Percy's eyes moved from the outside world to Valerie in her tight gunmetal colored dress and long legs drawn underneath as she fussed awake. He smiled at her. Heavy lidded from too much champagne at dinner, she kissed at his neck and he could feel her tongue wet and slick against his neck and her hand moved reflexively to his inner thigh then groin. The first thing that Percy thought of when he met the Kurd was that the guy looked like Eddie Munster. At an unnamed basement restaurant complete with nightly piano music they met the Kurd. Assan was dressed in a cheap looking leather jacket that looked like it was bought from a street vendor, sat at the back table and stood when Percy and Wendell entered the emptied dinning area. Hired muscle lurked at the door and stood in the back. Polite handshakes, smiles, awkward small talk about the weather. The men sat. “Assan, how d’ya get into this business?” Percy said. Percy not being shy about it, just putting it out there in the open as if Assan worked in pharmaceutical sales. Assan liked this and laughed and said, “Back where I come from, I used to sell guns to Iraqis, to Kurds, to Turks, to Syrians. To anyone who could afford my price. I had good connections with Russians and Chinese. They get me AK47s, RPGS, grenades. I make very good money. But I knew it could end any day. I get in my car. And boom! It could be my last. So I come to America. The land of opportunity. Not many Kurds here, or Turks. No one knows what I have done. This is good for me. The police, they do not know me here, like they know me in my home country. Now I am here. This good story yes?” Percy nodded, impressed. Assan grunted something in his native tongue and one of his henchmen walked up to the table. “You see him? He look ok yes?” The man was about 5 foot eight but weighed about 250 thought Percy. He had no neck, and a scar across his nose. Assan barked another command, and the man pulled back his leather topcoat, revealing a submachine gun in a breakaway holster. “MP5?” Percy asked. “Very good. It’s a beautiful gun. It’s fitted with a silencer. And in a close quarters, there is nothing better.” “Like Clint Eastwood. You Americans love your heroes.” Percy did not respond. The bodyguard closed his coat, stepped back to his post. “Tell me. What kind of gun do you prefer?” “Me? I do not like guns. You find this funny yes? No, I prefer the intimacy of a blade.” He reached into his pocket and withdrew a thin silver cylinder. He snapped his wrist and an equally thin blade extended with a click. “If I am going to take a man’s life, I want to feel his heart, feel his breath, see his eyes.” Percy for once didn’t have a response. "Do you have the cards?" Wendell reached under the table, and hefted a small duffel bag onto the table and pushed it towards Assan. The bodyguard at the table grabbed the bag, looked inside, and turned to Assan and nodded. "I have an issue with the cards. Many are not working. Why is this?" "Assan,” Wendell said, “I told you, there’s sometimes a failure rate of about 10%." "Then why don't I pay you 10% less? I do not know why I must-" Percy interrupted: "Wendell said, sometimes, not always. Do you understand the difference?" Assan grunted like a tired farm animal. He collected his blade, stared at the blade and said as if speaking to it, "Many do not work." "The way I see it, you're arguing over a few hundred dollars here. Is that what we're talking about?" For Assan, it was pride. He didn't understand why he couldn't get cards where all of them worked. He didn't understand that the only way to test the cards was to use them, if he used them, the bank could track their activity. They could only be used securely once. Twice was forbidden. “You the boss man.” “Well get you more cards. We can increase the amount we press.” “Very good.” He tasted the blade with his tongue before putting it away. "How much?" The barrel chested African handed over two vanilla ice cream cones, each wrapped in a green napkin emblazoned with another restaurant logo. "Eight dollars." Percy winced. "That's too much." "Hey man, this New York." Percy gave the man a ten and told him to keep the change. They were walking along Grand Army Plaza, along the park side with The Plaza directly before them lit up like a stage. Valerie smiled in a tight pair of blue jeans with knee high brown boots. A seemingly endless stream of yellow cabs snaked through the street, dislodging tourists at the park, and the famous hotel, and claiming more passengers before they disappeared into the streets. "How d’you get into it?" She stopped walking, her tongue working the ice cream cone one last time, and then said, "I was wondering when you were going to ask." They moved to the edge of the sidewalk parkside and Percy leaned forward on his elbows against a stonewall. She gave him a pained look before she began. "I was working as a substitute teacher at the time and going to night school to finish my education degree. I had this boyfriend who was cheating on my while I was at class, and he racked up my credit cards. He was a real winner I tell ya. I was really in debt, and I didn't know how to get out of it." Percy thought that explained why sometimes she spoke to him like he was nine. "My friend Lucy and I started coming into the city. We had this silly idea that we'd find a rich boyfriend. I was living across the river in Hoboken at the time. We’d take the subway in every Thursday and Friday night. That was my plan. Find a rich man. Seriously." She pushed her lips together and shook her head. "I liked nice things and I didn't want to work hard for it. I was young and stupid. Anyway, we started going to this bar in Manhattan, in the financial district. It was called Estelle's. It's not around any more. It got torn down after 9-11. But me and Lucy would get all dressed up. Not slutted up ya know, but stylish, nails and hair all done up. We looked great. Like we belonged there. The wait staff knew us, and we never had to pay for a drink. Two girls like us walk in a place like that, and men are lining up. The place was an upscale joint. Waiters decked out in all black, clean cut, always friendly, always smiling. "One night we’re at our usual table, and we’re just talking. It was a slow night. We actually thought we'd have to pay for our bill. The waiter, Lawrence, comes over. I remember his name because this one time Lucy called him Larry and he got all pissed off – well anyway, Lawrence brought over a round of gin and tonics and asked if we would join this gentlemen at his table. He was sitting at a booth in the back; we didn't even notice him. "We said sure. This was how it worked. A man buys you a drink and you'd join him at his table and see where it went from there. You'd laugh at his jokes if he was good looking or charming, or drop the I need to catch a cab line if he was a jerk or unattractive. Well, we slid into the booth and we look up, and the man is as old as my grandfather. He had to be 85. He asked us how our drinks were. He didn't drink. Just tonic water with a twist of lemon he told us. He introduced himself – James Thierry-Lacroix. We had a hard time with that one. It made him laugh. He thought we were models and wanted us to model for him. A private showing he said, with a complete wardrobe. He said he had everything we would need and there would be no funny stuff. His words. No funny stuff. Who says that?" Percy gave her a look that said bullshit. Valerie stopped. "Look don't gimme that face. I'm a woman who's not afraid of making a dollar." She continued in a softer tone, "He had this huge five story brownstone on the eastside. He had really nice things. Here was this old man who outlived his wife of 40 years and both his sons. In a way I felt sorry for him. I really did. He sat all alone in this giant house that was like a museum. "He made us watch TV with him. He loved to watch bad TV and he would make us watch it with him until three in the morning. We would sit on either side of him dressed in these outfits. Some of it trashy, some of it classy. And if he was still awake, we would take showers together. Me and Lucy, not with him. He would just watch. He was paying us thousands of dollars a night to do that. I thought this wasn't so bad." “I tell ya, the house belonged in the Great Gatsby. What? You’re giving me that look again.” "What then?" "I tried to do some dancing. Off Broadway ya know. But it never really took off. The only dancing gigs I could get involved very little clothing and a pole. We asked him to refer us to some of his friends. Well, Lucy did. She was all into it. Some of them were not as proper as the old codger. And these men didn't want us to just sit next to them in latex while they fell asleep to reruns of Murder She Wrote. I remember this one guy, we started kissing on his sofa, and he just starts pushing my head down. Just like that. But I wouldn't let him and he said what the fuck am I paying you for? Just like that. And it hit me right then. He's paying me to suck him off. You just learn to tune it out I guess. I can see it on your face. You think I slept with the old man? Please- we always expected to find him naked on his sofa with his dick in hand and an empty bottle of Viagra, but it never happened." The vanilla ice cream had melted, dripped and ran over Valerie’s fingers. She licked at it quickly and started to walk away, very much tired of talking about the past. Percy considered her tale and tried to untangle the threads of truth from deceit. It all seemed too handy, too practiced, and to a trained ear, it was obvious this was what she told herself at night, repeating it until she believed it. Hell, it sounded good, even Percy wanted to believe it. "I don't even know why we're talking about it." "I know what I agreed to Percy, but I didn't know everything." "You're not making any sense. You know that?" "He should only get 3 points. Not 10. That's just stupid," said Wendell. Percy sat in his office and rose from his seat with his palms flat on the desk. "This is the last time I tell you. Bruno is getting the finder's fee we discussed on the first day. He brought us the whale. It's how it's done. You understand?" "He doesn't do anything." "What are you talking about? He brought us the whale and he's done surveillance on the johns. He pulled that together. That whole angle, that's him. Those chumps are going to pony up 300k just for a shot of getting back some of their funds and her address. They're going to get hustled two-times." He started to laugh. "I don't trust that guy. And neither should you. He’s a cold blooded killer." "Don't lecture me about who I should trust." Wendell said, "You know, I did some digging on that pretty little bimbo you're sleeping with every night, playing girlfriend and boyfriend. I was able to look at her bank account – this account, didn't have but thirty thousand in it. Where's this money that you're talking about? Millions you said. Easy score? Well, we're burning through a ton of it a month trying to find it. How do I know you already made a deal with the whore?" "Wendell, I would never do that to you. When we were upstate, before I knew about your skills, what did I do? I saved your ass from the prison freaks that wanted to use it like a pincushion. I did it because I liked you. You got that? Why would I screw you over now?" Wendell's face slackened. He didn't want to admit it, but Percy was right. He sighed and said, "I just think you're getting to close too her and you're forgetting the rules of the game. A game you invented." She sat on the edge of the bed, in a blue terry cloth robe cinched tight across her waist. Her hair done up in curlers. She wore no makeup. In an hour, she would walk out of the room as an evenly groomed brunette in a jade green evening dress, with a headful of tight curls. She was supposed to meet Percy at 9pm. She had fed him some line about meeting some of her friends uptown for dinner and drinks. He smiled and said, "It's cool baby." Deep down she thought: he knew that she was still working. She had promised him that she was done. This was supposed to be her last. The agency left a message on her voicemail and said money was no object. She had called back and agreed to the terms of the session. Ten thousand for three hours worth of work. Too much to ignore. At the hotel, she had picked up a magnetic keycard from the front desk and took the elevator to the top floor. Inside the penthouse suite, she found an envelop with five thousand, a simple beige dress a size too small and a pair of hose with a thin seam down the back. She shimmied into the tight outfit, and sprawled on the bed propped up on her elbows, smoothing out the fabric of the dress. Waiting, she tried to figure out Percy's angle. Her suspicion ebbed and flowed and in the end she still could not decide if his intentions were genuine. She bumped a few lines of blow while she waited, to put herself in the mood she told herself. She didn't need that with Percy. Percy always knew what to do to put her in the mood. She allowed herself a short smile and then realized she had made a mistake. She tried to tell herself business was business. At exactly 5pm, the door swung open. She stared into a thin gaunt face shorn of any fat or muscle, the outline of the underlying skull clearly evident. The face belonged to Wendell Blanchard. He paid an extra grand to do her with no rubber. He came as soon as he penetrated her. He dressed, his eyes staring at the floor. He turned and moved to the edge of the bed staring at her form. She sat there, reposed, calm, as if nothing had happened. “If you want to go again, it’s gonna cost-“ Suddenly, he hit her with an open palm, hard. She tasted blood in her mouth. At 8:45 that night, Valerie called Percy and said she was running late. Percy hesitated, sensing something in her voice, and said he would pick her up. She gave him an address for a French bistro near her hotel. He took a step towards Wendell. "What have you been up to tonight? How are the cards? We gonna make the next batch for the Kurd?" "I asked didn't I?" "I hit Valerie’s bank account, also known as Connie Hernandez." "What do you mean hit?" "As in drained. I transferred the funds to our account in Belgium." "You're kidding me? Why would you do that," rasped Percy. "You idiot, do you know what you've done? You've put this entire operation in jeopardy? And for what? Thirty large?" Percy glared at Wendell, angry. Percy didn't say anything, his mind trying to control his fists from unleashing on Wendell. What made Percy even angrier was that Wendell was right. He had a tall stringy frame, bereft of any musculature. There wasn't a question of whether or not Percy could take him; it was an issue of strategy. He still needed Wendell. Percy didn't reply. In a tired voice he said, "How d'you get that scratch?" But before Wendell could answer, Percy said, "I'll deal with you when I get back." He shook his head and stormed out of the flat. Two hours later, Percy returned to his rented luxury penthouse to conclude his episode with Wendell Blanchard. Valerie had said she didn’t want to stay. She just couldn’t. He ended up taking her across the river to Jersey to stay with her mother in Hoboken. Valerie didn’t say a word, just staring out the window, occasionally glancing at Percy. He didn’t ask about the black eye she had. Inside the penthouse, Bruno was there, watching CNN on the TV. It was nearly midnight when Percy entered and realized the time for talking with Wendell was over. Wendell, it appeared was trying to have it both ways. “Where is he?” “In his room. He’s up there with the Kurd.” Just as Bruno said that, one of Assan’s henchmen emerged from the kitchen. Bald, squat, and ugly, he stood in the doorway with his arms crossed. “Wendell. Get your ass down here.” Percy looked at the hired muscle and shook his head. Percy heard a door close and a moment later, Wendell and Assan descended the stairs. Assan’s dark eyes never leaving Percy. Assan extended his hand and said, “Looks like we’re partners.” Percy considered the hand before him, absorbed in contemplating the details of what Wendell offered up to the Kurd. He did not shake it; the Kurd retracted his hand, and smiled weakly. “Excuse me Assan, but my issue is with Wendell. Please let me settle this. It has nothing to do with you.” Wendell stepped forward; confident that Assan and his muscle would protect him. Smiling, smug in his security, he began to open his mouth when Percy hit him hard in the stomach. Both his hands closed around his chest as he doubled over, and he felt his breath rush out of his lungs. Before he could straighten, Percy hit him again across the side of the face, with a cupped hand hard across the ear. Wendell stumbled, his vision replaced with blurred stars. Percy hit him again and again alternating between the face, stomach. “Enough. This is settled. There will be no more.” “The fuck it is.” “You work for me now-“ “I don’t work for any one.” He pulled his arm free from Assan’s bodyguard. “Just sit down, please sit down.” It was Assan. He held both hands up, trying to calm Percy. He said, “Percy I think you should watch this.” Percy took a seat on the sofa, his eyes fixed on Wendell. The bodyguard popped in a VHS tape into the player, and pressed play. Wendell said, “Why do you love her? Look – she never stopped whoring.” Blood splattered his shirt, still trickled from his nose, the corners of his mouth. Percy watched the video of Valerie: a kaleidoscope of different men, different hotel suites, and different stages of undress. Wendell repeated his original question: “Why do you love her?” Percy stood up, and just said out loud to no one in particular, “I don’t know.” A moment later he stormed out of the penthouse and no one followed. Percy called Bruno from a bar near Washington Square. Hipster college kids watched reruns of the Love Boat and sipped PBR from cans. When Percy left the penthouse, he just walked and walked, jumped in a cab and figured Washington Square looked as good as any place to get lost for a bit. He called Bruno to see what was going on. “Assan left about an hour ago. The kid just left. You fucked him up pretty good.” “Did he say where he was going?” “He said he was looking for you.” “No shit.” “Yeah. I’m worried. I saw Assan give the kid a gun. A big Desert Eagle. Wendell could barely steady it.” “He doesn’t care about the cards. He wants the girl. Wendell has been spinning that story up.” “We gotta close it down.” “I’ll be back in the morning.” Percy ended the call and knew it was time to move on. Percy saw Wendell Blanchard escorted out of the building bookended with two men in blue windbreakers and busy looks splashed across their serious faces. POLICE clearly visible from where Percy stood, across the street with a growing crowd of onlookers. The trio waited a moment beneath the sidewalk awning, a large black suburban pulled up, the rear door popped open, and Blanchard was pushed inside, cuffed. The car sped away from the curb and Blanchard was gone. But that alone wasn't enough to make Percy nervous. It was when he saw box after box of items from the penthouse being loaded onto a truck that made him sick to his stomach. A local news team captured the parade. He did a U-turn and walked away, back tracking toward the park blocks. Fast. But not too fast as to appear suspicious. Just another busy New Yorker in a hurry. He was several blocks away, his mind a frantic mess trying to recall what he left back in the flat. It was all there. Every detail, every note. The photos. The taped phone calls. It's all there. He had the cash in his pocket and the clothes on his back. Another thought materialized: When the Kurd realized that Blanchard was nabbed, he'll want to know why Percy wasn't. The Kurd we'll inevitably think it was Percy who made the call. It was just a matter of time until the Kurd and his goon squad was on his tail. Not willing to discuss – just easier to settle the problem with violence. He kept on walking. He didn't know where he was going. NYC was a big city. And that's when Valerie pulled up, almost running him over as he stepped off a curb to cross the street. She rolled the window down and said something that didn’t register with Percy. He stood there, and watched her lips move. He could see part of her arms but couldn't see her hands. Did she know about the con? Did she want revenge? "Getin." Her hands moved to the wheel, empty. He did so. She floored the Ford rental and said they were headed to Long Island. Montauk to be exact. He nodded and said that was a good idea. He cleared his throat and said, "What happened?" "Blanchard went nuts. He got into a fight with Bruno and then shot him. Shot him dead. I saw it. I saw the whole thing." Percy was speechless. He wasn't expecting that. “I came back to get a few things. And Wendell was there. Waiting for you. He said some mean things to me. Called me a whore. How original. Bruno socked him one. Got him good across the face. He told him to chill and just wait in the kitchen for you. Blanchard said no and told him to get the fuck out and that he shouldn’t come around here unless you’re here.” Percy nodded, imagining Blanchard in one of his moods, like an impetuous child. "Well Bruno doesn't listen to Blanchard, and just tells him to relax and he'll be in the kitchen. A few minutes later, I hear them arguing over money. Blanchard yelling, telling Bruno he shouldn't have to pay him at all. That if it wasn't for him, they wouldn't be making any money. That Percy's plan wasn't worth a damn. What was he talking about?" Percy shrugged his shoulders. He couldn’t risk her finding out now. "Then I could hear them fighting, and then gunshots. They were so loud. I ran into the kitchen and saw Blanchard standing over Bruno with a gun in his hand. Blood was all over the floor, the wall." The usual sharp edge in her voice, replaced with a worried tone. She drove fast and erratic. "I ran out of there before the police came.” Percy couldn't think. He told her to slow down. He’ll never know what truly happened up in the penthouse. Was she even there? "You know why he did it?" Percy didn't respond. "He was waiting to get back at you, for when you beat the hell out of him. And the way you did it. In front of everyone. Bruno told me.” "He knew that-" He cut himself off before he confessed his feelings for her. "That what? That you were falling for me?" "When d’ya dye your hair?" "Last night, when you dropped me off." "Were you planning on leaving? You didn’t answer my calls last night. I thought you’d left. I was worried. You shouldn’t have come back." She didn't say anything. He noticed her face now pale, grow tight with concern. She eyed the rearview mirror. He turned around in his seat and saw a police cruiser with its overhead lights on headed their way. The bruise around her eye had turned from black into a yellow blossom. "Keep it cool. Just follow my lead." She pulled over and the cruiser blazed by. They both looked at each other, smiled, sharing a moment of brevity between them. Looking out the window, he said, "Did you know what we were doing in there?" She said, "Not at first. You did a good job selling it. I bought it. But then, things were creepy and weird with Blanchard. I knew something was up. And then when I found out you were asking about me at some of the clubs I worked at, I knew something was up." "Why'd you stay around?" "The money. I thought I could get more." "Isn't that always the case." Feeling more relaxed; he lit up a cigarette and cracked the window. "I didn't tell Wendell to hit your bank account." After a long pause, she said, "I guess he wanted to screw me twice. That was all there was. Except for 10 large at my mother’s condo." "He's going to go away for awhile this time. Murder, identify theft. He'll try and drag our names through the mud. And then there’s the matter of Assan." "So what are we going to do? Two cons who tried to con each other with the world looking for them?" |
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