In the inside pocket of the jacket was a single sheet of paper, folded into a small square. I unfolded it and started to read what amounted to the final decree of divorce between Graham Wallace Woodard (Wallace—I had to laugh) and Helen Morgan Bryan. I’d guessed he hadn’t worn the jacket since he celebrated the finalization of his severance from Helen, and I was right. Hell, I’d been with him that night. Go, Jake, go.
Stuffing the decree in my wallet on the off chance I managed to forget this hard-earned evidence, I picked up the room phone and had the hotel operator connect me with information. An appropriately nasal voice snapped at me to give her the name and city. I told her I wasn’t sure about the city, but I needed the number for a Helen Morgan Bryan in Los Angeles County. There were, of course, nine of them. I thanked her anyway and hung up.
1 for 3.
I whispered to myself, “Where are you, Helen?”
My mind clicked. I went back to the laptop, booted it up again, and tried a few iterations of Graham’s ex-wife’s name. “HelenMorganWoodard” ended up being the golden ticket. That sad bastard.
Now that I was online, I got to searching. I’d done my fair share of ex-stalking in my time so my Google-Fu in that regard wasn’t too shabby. It took me about ten minutes to discover that the former Mrs. Woodard had an outstanding warrant for three unpaid traffic tickets, and another five minutes to find not only her name but also her picture on a skeezy-looking site called modelwarehouse.com. Her page contained six photos, semi-professional, featuring my friend’s ex-wife in various stages of undress. She wasn’t completely nude in any of them except the last, where she was strategically covering the offending parts while looking dumbly at the camera. Behind her was a dilapidated shed with a pair of rusty rakes leaned up against the side. White-trash chic. Most of the other models seemed to use obvious stage names, but not Helen. Misplaced pride, I suspected. I wrote down the email address and phone number for the company on a sheet of hotel stationery and continued my search, hoping in vain for an address. I didn’t get one.
With my two new documents in tow, I wandered back down to the lobby and found myself back in the hotel bar, where the bartender was thankfully a stranger to me so I could charge my drinks to Graham’s room. I sipped Dewar’s and worked out a plan of attack. All I had to go on was this dubious modeling agency, so halfway through my second drink I decided it was time to go looking for a model.
18
She dreamed of shootings and stabbings, of white, bloated bodies and staircases flowing with rivers of blood. In between sleep and wakefulness, the occasional automobile engine or barking dog alerted her to the real world outside of her violent imaginings, which was somehow even worse. Out there, fearsome memories abounded, dancing perilously close to the ominous portents of her immediate future.
Of art and death, buried bodies and those left to bleed out on the street. She rose hours before dawn, a ghost, resurrected but only halfway — the better parts of her left behind, in the cold ground.
19
The guy behind the desk was jacked in the arms but with a stomach that wasn’t necessarily winning its battle against the buttons of his Oxford shirt. The sleeves were rolled up, revealing “tribal” tattoos and barbed wire armbands, the type of tats every frat guy in Boston seemed to have these days, with a greasy black faux-hawk to match. He was pounding an energy drink, his overly caffeinated eyes flitting from me to his computer screen to the framed pictures of half-naked girls that covered his office’s walls. This was Ray Warren, CEO of Model Warehouse, and I was sitting across from him in the form of a potential client.
“Tell me about your project,” he said, his voice a raspy East Coast drawl. “But listen — no sex stuff, you un’nerstand? Simulated’s fine, depending, but I don’t do porn.”
“No porn,” I assured him, playing this by ear. The cat made me a little nervous; those tree trunk arms of his could make quick work of a skinny little puke like me. “What I want is like extras, for an indie film shoot.”
Ray chortled and leaned back in his squeaky office chair.
“My girls aren’t exactly thespians,” he said. “Sure, a few of them have ambitions, but their sizzle reels are only good for the T and A quotient, you know?”
“That’s all I’d really need them for. It’s sort of a crazy party scene,” I improvised. “Eye candy, that sort of thing.”
“A movie, huh?” He mulled it over, scratching at the back of his massive neck. “What’s it called?”
“Angel of the Abyss,” I said, almost immediately regretting it.
“Sounds artsy fartsy,” Ray said.
“A little bit arsty, a little bit fartsy. I only really need one girl, to be honest. I’m looking for a type.”
“I got all types,” he boasted, going for the keyboard. “I even got an amputee, if that’s your flavor.”
“I’ve been over your website,” I said, watching the sweat gleaming on his forehead. He killed off his energy drink and I hoped to get what I needed before his heart exploded in his chest. “The one I’d really like to hire is Helen Bryan.”
Ray’s hands retracted from the keyboard and his eyebrows raised, crinkling his forehead.
“Kind of a strange first choice, ain’t she?”
“I don’t think so. She’s perfect for what I need.”
“Plain girl,” he said. “Nice bust, but not that pretty in the face. I got much better than that.”
“I appreciate the suggestion, but if she’s available, she’s the one I want.”
“She’s not,” he said quickly. “I don’t even know why she’s still on the site. I need to have her taken off. Helen isn’t really with the agency anymore. Sorry, bro.”
He shrugged and waved his hands, half-apologetically and half-this-conversation-is-done. I wondered.
“That’s a shame,” I said. “She’s really got the look I’m going for. If she’s still in town, I’d sure like to get in touch with her. It’s a paying gig, of course. I’d make it worth her while.”
“Like I said, she’s not one of mine anymore,” Ray said, forcefully. “I got models I can hire out to you, anybody else isn’t my problem. That one isn’t my problem, and I can’t help with that. Now, you want to look at another girl, we can talk turkey. Otherwise, I’d say we’re done here, wouldn’t you?”
I told him I’d think it over and check out some of the profiles on the site, and I thanked him for his time. He watched me cagily as I left the office.
I came back just after seven that evening, hoping to find the place vacant but the light was still on in Ray’s office. The sky was darkening to a dull purple and the parking lot was mostly empty. I parked behind a green Dumpster, killed the lights and engine, and listened to a classic rock station at low volume while I watched the window in the office and wished I’d bought something to snack on. It was my first stakeout and I hoped my last. It took a little over an hour for the window to go dark, at which point I switched off the radio and slid down in my seat. I felt like a perfect fool, playing at Junior Detective like I was in some movie, but what else could I do? My only lead to help Graham out was Helen, and Ray was my only way to her.